When We Are Enough (Valiant Hearts #1)

7. Emmy

Chapter 7

Emmy

“ G ood night,” I call as Granny Sloane maneuvers with her walker down the hallway to her bedroom. I’ve already helped her take her meds and wash up, but she refused my offer to assist her into bed.

“I consider early rising a virtue, you know. I hope you aren’t one of those young people who idle away the morning hours in bed.” Her voice is tinged with sternness, which I’m beginning to understand is just part of her manner.

My smile broadens. “I’m also an early riser, don’t worry. I plan to have a cup of tea and then head to bed.”

She nods, seemingly pleased with this response, and with a brisk “Goodnight,” she retires to her room.

Left alone in the kitchen, the kettle goes on. As the water heats, I lean against the counter, my mind wandering. I’m only twenty-six, yet here I am, starting over, with nothing to show for it but a broken-down car and a nearly empty bank account.

There’s a pang of something like regret, but also, unexpectedly, a sense of liberation. Being away from my parents, from Travis and the life that was suffocating me, from the worst betrayal I’ve ever experienced, feels like breathing fresh air for the first time in years.

I like what I’ve seen of Harbor’s Edge. I never thought of myself as a small-town girl, and while I’ve only been here a hot minute, there’s something nice about the slower pace, the friendly faces, the sense of community.

I quickly scrub the casserole dish and fry pan we used for dinner, placing them on the rack by the sink to dry. Dinner with Ruby and her family was an eye-opener—loud and raucous, filled with laughter and overlapping conversations.

Ruby’s two daughters, around my age, and her son, added to the lively atmosphere. I heard mentions of an older son, Patrick, but the conversation moved too fast for me to ask about him. It was so different from the subdued, often rigid family dinners I grew up with.

With my tea made, the bookshelf in the living room pulls my attention, and I’m drawn by curiosity about what Granny Sloane reads. To my surprise, the shelves are crammed with romance novels, each spine promising tales of passion, heartache, and healing through love. My fingers linger on the spines, and then I notice a couple of thick reference books on fire management. The dry texts stand out among the other books, seeming out of place.

Shaking off my curiosity, I pluck a romance book off the shelf at random, switch the lights off, shrouding the house in darkness and shadows, and head to my room—the guest room. It’s neat and tastefully decorated, like the rest of the house, with pale colors and comfortable furnishings. The bed looks large and inviting, with soft sheets and plenty of big puffy pillows, and I’m looking forward to sinking into it with my borrowed book.

Granny Sloane might be the unexpected romantic, but tonight, one of those romance novels will be my escape. I’m not looking for any kind of relationship whatsoever, but a book boyfriend never fails to satisfy.

I slip on my favorite comfortable cotton pajamas: a singlet over tiny shorts, super soft, with a cute print of pink flowers against a lemon yellow background—which always makes me think of summer. As I settle in, comforter pulled up to my chest, the events of the day start to fade, and I lose myself in the story of true love and deep passion, a world away from the realities of my own life.

I turn a page, the two main characters about to sleep together for the first time, when the front door handle rattles. My heart jumps to my throat. Sitting up in bed, the heat of the novel dissipates instantly. Immediate worry for Granny Sloane floods my thoughts—she’s asleep, recovering from a stroke, completely vulnerable.

The door creaks open, and I curse myself for not checking if it was locked before going to bed. Fear roots me to the spot for a heartbeat, but then I’m propelled into action. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, dialing 911 with trembling fingers.

“There’s an intruder in the house,” I whisper into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper as I give the dispatcher our address. “Please hurry.”

“Stay on the line,” the dispatcher instructs calmly. “Stay put and keep yourself safe. Someone’s on the way.”

But as the sound of footsteps creeping along the hallway reaches me, staying put no longer feels like an option. I have to protect Granny Sloane. Slipping out of bed, phone still in hand, I tiptoe to the kitchen where I might be able to find a weapon of some kind, maybe a knife.

A detached part of my brain adds self-defense to my ever-growing list of things I wish I’d learned before leaving Travis and heading out on my own.

Reaching the kitchen, it’s clear the intruder is heading this way. In a panic, I grab the pan from the sink, its weight a little reassuring in my hands, and press myself against the wall, just out of sight of the dark hallway entrance.

The footsteps grow louder, closer. Heart pounding, I set the phone on the counter, the dispatcher’s voice a quiet murmur, and grip the pan with both hands.

Shadows, black as ink, seem to dance around me, adding to the sense of impending danger. The fear in my gut clenches and twists, making me feel nauseous, crawling through my body, spreading its icy grip.

The shape of the intruder looms just a few feet away, getting closer with every second. Every instinct screams for me to run, to hide, but Granny Sloane’s safety is at the forefront of my mind. As the figure steps into view, I tighten my grip on the pan and swing it down. Hard .

There’s a sharp cry of pain, and for a moment the shadow stumbles back. But then he recovers, too big, too strong—a wall of muscle that turns and presses me to the wall with a force that knocks the air from my lungs.

“The police are on their way,” I manage to gasp out, my voice shaking with fear. “Get out of here. I’ve got a gun!”

The man releases me abruptly and steps back, his deeply shadowed expression one of confusion and anger.

“Who the heck are you? Are you crazy?” His voice booms in the quiet house. “This is my house, and you just assaulted me . I’m the one about to call the police!”

He flicks on a light, and for the first time, we really see each other. His gaze locks onto mine, hard and assessing, then shifts to something I can’t interpret, his gaze skimming my flimsy pajamas, pausing on the spaghetti strap slipping down my shoulder.

“Who are you?” I raise the pan again, steadying my legs.

“I’m Patrick O’Connor.” His tone is slightly less confrontational. “Who the hell are you?”

The pieces click into place, his name one I heard earlier. This is Granny Sloane’s grandson, Patrick. Before I can formulate a response, a police siren grows louder, the sound cutting off abruptly as it nears the house. Lights flash through the living room windows a moment later, painting us in a montage of blue and red.

The dispatcher’s small voice from the abandoned phone on the kitchen counter fills the silence: “Hello? Are you there?”

A second later, there’s a loud banging on the door, just as Granny Sloane appears in the kitchen doorway, her robe pulled tightly around her, leaning on her walker, an expression of sleepy irritation on her face. “What’s all this ruckus?”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, the pan still in my hand, facing the man whose head I just whacked. A red lump is forming on the side of his temple, and it looks like there’s a small laceration. Granny Sloane’s gaze flicks between us.

“No one told me… no one said you live here, too. I’m Emmy Brooks, the new live-in nurse.”

Patrick’s eyes blaze at my words. He has Ruby’s dark hair, thick and tousled, and piercing blue eyes that seem to see right through me, deep and introspective. Despite the chaotic introduction, those eyes tug at something inside me, pulling me under, pulling me down somewhere I don’t want to be.

Someone pounds on the door again. “This is the police! Open up!”

“I... I’m sorry, I thought—” But the words tangle, inadequate and foolish now.

Pounding starts on the door again. Patrick turns, hurrying down the hall, while Granny Sloane stares at me with something that looks almost like amusement.

“I’m so sorry. I thought he was an intruder. I didn’t know he lives with you.”

“Trust me, I’ve told him plenty of times that I can take care of myself. I’ve got no idea why he insisted on moving in.” Granny Sloane turns in the direction of the front door, raising her voice. “Patrick, I’m in my nightgown. I don’t want any visitors right now. Please send the police away.”

“Yes, Granny Sloane,” comes back Patrick’s deep voice, the sound felt right in my chest.

Ruby’s familiar voice joins the conversation on the front lawn and a moment later, the flashing lights go off. Judging from the animated discussions taking place out there, it sounds like the entire neighborhood has gathered on the street outside .

“A frying pan?” Granny Sloane raises an eyebrow and I shrug. “If he’d really been an intruder, I’m not sure that would have done you much good. Go for one of the carving knives next time, dear.”

The front door closes, and Patrick returns a few moments later, glaring at me. The athletic broad of him leans against the kitchen counter, and he drags his hands through his dark hair before gingerly touching the red bump on his temple.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, no thanks to you,” he snaps back.

“Well, I’m going back to bed,” Granny Sloane announces. “I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted.”

“Do you need any help?”

“Can I help?—”

Patrick and I speak at the same time, and Granny Sloane waves us both off before disappearing down the dark hallway, leaving us alone. A glance at my phone tells me the dispatcher has already terminated the call, and I return the pan to the sink before turning back to face him.

Tension lingers in the air, but there’s something else too. He’s standing there in sweats and a T-shirt despite the chill outside, tall and muscled with chiseled features softened only by his mouth. He’s so damn beautiful, it almost hurts to look directly at him.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my flimsy pajamas, the way they cling a little too comfortably to my body, and I tug self-consciously at the hem of my singlet, while the room seems to shrink, pulling my attention toward him.

His presence is a physical force—and I’m caught in the intensity of his gaze. It’s like standing too close to a fire; the warmth is enticing, but the fear of getting burned is real.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks: living with him under the same roof is going to be a big problem.