When We Are Enough (Valiant Hearts #1)

8. Patrick

Chapter 8

Patrick

W e’re staring at one another when an engine grumbles. A moment later, the police cruiser heads off down the street, the hum fading into the quiet night. Touching the spot where she whacked me with the fry pan, I glance away, breaking the standoff, a dull throb radiating through my skull.

My thoughts are a mess. How could Mom think this was necessary? We’re a family—we take care of our own; we don’t outsource this kind of thing. A live-in nurse. Living here, in my home. The knowledge that she thinks I can’t handle caring for Granny Sloane hurts more than anything.

I need this woman gone.

Glancing across the kitchen at Emmy, my resolve frays a little. She’s stunning, something I noticed the moment the kitchen light went on. I’ve seen plenty of pretty girls, but there’s something about her. Something that’s stirring to life things inside that have lain dormant for a long time.

Emmy’s beauty is different, effortless. Her hair falls in a cascade of soft, honey-blonde waves, framing a face marked by large, expressive hazel eyes that catch the light, reflecting a spectrum of greens and browns.

“Look, I’m sorry about all this.” She smiles tentatively at me, like she’s trying to smooth over the fact she just hit me with a fry pan, and one of the straps of her yellow and pink pajamas slips further down a perfect, tanned shoulder. That smile of hers lights up her entire face, drawing my attention to her high cheekbones and small, slightly upturned nose.

For a moment, the pain in my head subsides, and I just stare at her again, aware of my body in ways I haven’t felt in years. The room is quiet now, and the frustration about my family’s decisions, about this nurse that’s been dumped in my life with no warning whatsoever, seems to fade a little.

The silence stretches between us, almost unbearable. But a distraction is not what I need, and I swallow hard, pulling myself back together, reminding myself of all the reasons why her staying would be a very bad idea.

“Look, Emmy, I think it’s best if you go.” My voice is firmer than I feel. “My mother did what she thought was best when she hired you, but I’ve got this under control.”

Her response is immediate, her posture stiffening as she squares her shoulders defiantly. “I’m not going anywhere.” There’s a surprising amount of fire in her gaze. “I’ve been hired to do a job, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

She’s got backbone, even when squaring off against me in nothing but her pajamas.

“Look, I’m not going to kick you out in the middle of the night. You can stay the night and head back to wherever you came from in the morning.”

Her reply is laced with sarcasm. “Well, aren’t you a perfect gentleman?”

I close my eyes, pressing the heel of my hand against my temple as a headache begins to throb painfully. When I open them again, she’s crossed the room and stands uncomfortably close, concern replacing the irritation on her face.

“Let me see your head,” she insists .

“I’m fine.”

But she’s already gently pushing me toward the kitchen table where I reluctantly sit down. The proximity is unsettling, her presence enveloping me in a way that heightens everything . She smells of coconut and something sweet, her clothes, her hair. It’s all too bright and too alive against the muted colors of Granny Sloane’s home.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“In the cupboard above the sink.”

Emmy returns with the first aid kit, and as she leans in to clean the laceration, the distance between us dwindles to mere inches. Her bare thighs are just a breath away from my own, her delicate hands moving expertly as she tends to the wound. The warmth of her breath is on my cheek.

The air between us seems to contract, as if there are invisible tendrils stretching between our bodies, drawing us closer. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her breasts, her eyes trained intently on me, the way she leans in close.

Her touch is gentle, her fingers brushing occasionally against my skin, and I try to focus on anything but the heat radiating from her body, her brow furrowing in concentration, and the quiet sound of her breathing.

“It’s just a small cut, which I’ve cleaned. I also applied a butterfly strip. No need for stitches.”

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice rough with discomfort and something dangerously close to longing. What the hell is wrong with me?

As she finishes up and steps back, giving us both room to breathe, I’m left confused, like I want her back beside me, touching me, breathing so close I can feel it, even though I want her gone. Her cheeks are slightly flushed as she stares at me.

“I’m sorry for, you know…” She gestures at the pan by the sink.

All I can do is nod.

She puts away the first aid kit, standing on her tiptoes, her calves flexing as she reaches to push it onto the top shelf. Her tank slides up, revealing a slip of golden skin above her waistband.

A soft groan dies in the back of my throat as I tear my gaze away, trying not to think about my mouth on her back, working my way up to her neck, claiming her lips with my own, before my mind snaps back to the pile of work waiting for me—reports to finalize, inspections to arrange.

“You should head back to bed.” My voice comes out harsher than intended. “I’ve got things to do, and we can talk more in the morning.”

She frowns at my abruptness, two lines appearing between her eyebrows, and somehow it’s both irritating and adorable.

“I’m happy to talk in the morning, but it won’t change anything. I was hired by Ruby, and I’ll keep working until I’m told otherwise. By her .”

Her words are reasonable, but they stoke at the tension that’s been simmering beneath the surface for a long time—there are so many people relying on me, so many things to do all the time. And it’s all being pulled even tighter by the frustrating desire she’s ignited, made worse by her next words.

“Why didn’t your own mother and grandmother even tell you about me?” She palms her hips, that damn strap still halfway down her shoulder.

“Because they knew I’d never have agreed to it.”

She stares at me for a long time. I swear I can hear the sound of my ticking watch slow, before she leans forward, her tone turning serious.

“I can tell you care about your grandmother a lot, and I can tell you mean well, but Granny Sloane needs help, and it’s hard enough for her to accept it. You shouldn’t make her life any more difficult than it already is.”

Anger flashes through me, hot and swift. She has no idea—no idea how much I’ve sacrificed, how much I’ve put on hold to look after my family, including Granny Sloane. I stand up abruptly, the room tilting slightly as a wave of dizziness washes over me from the sudden movement.

I haven’t had dinner yet, but all I want is to get away, to put some space between me and Emmy Brooks. Without another word, I stride to my room, the need to escape the conversation accompanied by the annoying thought that she could be right, which makes my headache even worse.

As much as I want to be there for my family, for Granny Sloane, she’s not been the same since her stroke. And even though it pisses me off that I wasn’t consulted at all, I can’t deny that having someone here while I’m at work will be a weight off my mind.

And I guess if Granny Sloane is okay with it, I’m just going to have to be okay with it too.

The guest bedroom door next to mine is ajar, the sight hitting me like a punch to the gut—we’re going to be neighbors, our beds separated by only a thin wall.

Great.

Jaw clenched, I walk into my room and take a seat at the desk facing the window.

My room is sparse, utilitarian, my sister calls it. I don’t own a lot of stuff—I just don’t need it. For a few seconds, I put my head in my hands, frustration and a strange sense of inevitability mingling inside.

This arrangement—Emmy living here, involved in the intimate details of Granny Sloane’s care, embedded in the fabric of our daily lives—is not what I need right now. I’ve got too much on my plate as it is, let alone enough time to navigate whatever that was between us back there.