She leans her elbows on her knees and nods. “Okay. I trust your instincts.”
“What?” The implication clicks into place in my head. “You think he did this to me? You’re wrong. Max is as nice as they come.”
She nods again but doesn’t look convinced. “Please don’t be upset. I’m not making any accusations. I want you to know you have resources. If you don’t feel comfortable calling the domestic abuse hotlines, you can always call me or—”
“Nix,” I say. “I promise I’ll contact you personally if I don’t feel completely safe.” She doesn’t look convinced, so I add, “I just…fell down the stairs. I’ve always been clumsy.”
“Hanna,” she says carefully, “I am suspicious that there’s more to these injuries than a fall.”
“What? But you said—”
“Maybe you fell down the stairs and hit your face, your ribs, your hips in the worst conceivable places. It’s possible. Or maybe”—she touches her own cheekbone, pointing to the location of one of my ugliest bruises—“maybe you were beaten and then pushed.”
I’M CONFUSED when we pull up outside a building near the town square. “Where are you taking me?” God, this is awkward. Max Hallowell is driving me home. Max Hallowell is my fiancé. Max Hallowell may or may not be abusive.
No. I don’t believe that. I’ve known Max all my life, and he’s sweet. Tender. He wouldn’t have pushed me down the
stairs. But who? And why?
It’s all so unbelievable that, if it weren’t for these bruises, I’d think this was all some sort of elaborate practical joke.
“You live here now,” he says softly. There’s a little crinkle between his eyes that tells me this is all as weird for him as it is for me. “You moved here in May.”
“Oh.” I moved here. Not we. Is it weird that I don’t live with him? Probably not. Mom still thinks it’s 1950 and disapproves of “premarital cohabitation” as much as she disapproves of premarital sex. Probably more, because at least you can hide premarital sex from the neighbors. “Does Lizzy live with me?”
He shakes his head and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. “You live here alone.”
That surprises me, but I can’t think about it too long because the feel of Max’s rough fingers on my cheek has my eyes fluttering shut. I wonder if I’ve come to take this for granted. Max touching me. Max looking at me with all that tenderness in his eyes. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of this being the new normal.
“Come on.” He pinches my earlobe lightly between two fingers. “I’ll walk you up.” He climbs out of the car and rushes around to get my door, offering his hand as I step out.
He doesn’t release me when I climb onto the sidewalk, just twines his fingers through mine. The storefront before us says Coffee, Cakes, & Confections, and the idea of it being mine takes my breath away. I’ve loved the simple chemistry of cakes and cookies and scones since I was a child. The smells comfort me in a way nothing else can. Feeding other people those delicious things? The best.
He nods to the glass double doors. “That’s your bakery. You have an office there to meet with clients and a kitchen in the back where you do prep, but the front is all about coffee and baked goods.”
“Any good?”
“The most amazing things I’ve ever tasted.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I think I’ve gained ten pounds since you opened it.”
I quirk a brow. “Can’t tell.”
He squeezes my hand. “Your apartment is upstairs.”
We walk to the paved walkway at the back of the building, and I have to stop and smile at the gurgling water of the New Hope River. I grew up here, playing along the banks, and nothing says home to me like the sound and smell of the river.
I slow as we approach the stairs. They’re wooden and look sturdy enough. They aren’t especially steep, and it’s August, so it’s not like they’d be slippery with ice. Was the doctor right? Did someone push me down the stairs?
Max touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“This is where it happened?”
“Lizzy found you. Thank God she came by when you didn’t answer your phone.”
“Does that seem as weird to you as it does to me?”
He shifts awkwardly. “I don’t know, Han. My best guess is that you forgot to eat again and maybe your blood sugar tanked.” He strokes my cheek with his index finger. “You’ve been pretty bad about that since you opened the business.”
Forgetting to eat? That doesn’t sound like me at all. I’ve pretended that I “forgot” to eat before, but I’ve never truly forgotten. Eating is my coping mechanism. My go-to when all else fails. But then again, with all the amazing things happening in my life, maybe I didn’t need to cope anymore.