It’s not like I was embarrassed by their affection; on the contrary, it was hot. I’d pay good money to see men like that in bed together, but they weren’t porn stars. They were obviously in love, and it seemed like it ought to be private. It was a sentimental thing. Sacred, even.
I couldn’t help smiling when Crispin growled a huskier greeting. “Mm. Hello. I should make jam every day if that’s what I get.”
“Tripp here is going to the hospital to see Lucho.”
Crispin arched an inquisitive brow. “Really?”
“My ma made something for his family.” I’m sure my face caught fire because I wanted to see Lucho despite my legitimate excuse. “Casserole. You know.”
“I told him you probably had something to send with him too.” Malloy had hung his hat on the wall, but he raked his hands through his hair, sort of self-consciously. It was pretty funny, the way he acted around Crispin.
“I do.” Crispin pointed to a square thermal carrier on the counter next to a matching bag. “They say he’ll be in there for a few more days, and I thought he’d like a home-cooked meal.”
“I’ll be happy to take it, if you can point me somewhere I can get cleaned up?”
“There’s a bathroom with a shower off the mudroom, where we came in. First door on the right.”
“Thank you.” I took my duffel and headed for it. I heard murmurs from behind me and felt a blush burn my cheeks. I wasted no time getting there.
Chapter Twelve
After I parked outside the hospital, I sat in the truck for a few minutes. This had to be one of the dumbest things I’d ever done. Inside, Lucho’s family was probably gathered around him—all except that little monster Fausto.
Was I ready to face Lucho’s mother down? Even for a chance to see him again?
He’d softened toward me a little when he was too sick to know better, but what if he was back to despising me? Was I prepared to see those dark eyes filled with contempt?
I grabbed my mother’s casserole, stacked the things Crispin added on top of it, and prepared myself for disappointment.
When I finally figured out how to find him, the door to Lucho’s room was open and goddamnit, he seemed to be
entertaining
. His mother, grandmother, and the man I’d seen drop Fausto off that afternoon were gathered around his bed in borrowed chairs. I cleared my throat before entering, because I had no hands free to knock.
Four similarly hued brown eyes stared at me as if I’d interrupted the Pope giving the last rites.
“Hello.” I cleared my throat again. “Tripp from the J-Bar.”
The older man spoke. “We know who you are.”
“I . . . uh.” I gestured with the food. “Brought you some things.”
Lucho took pity on me, I guess, because he punched a button to raise the head of his bed. “What is it?”
“Crispin sent a hot dish and some sides to go with it.” I handed over the carrier with his dinner, and the bag, which held biscuits and fresh jam. “He thought you’d like a home-cooked meal.”
“And that?” He nodded toward the cold casserole I still held in my hands.
“My—” I swallowed. “My mother sent this for your family. She says to get well soon.”
The older man snorted in disgust. “
Your
mother?”
“I’m sorry about this.” I shook my head as I looked around for somewhere to put things. Lucho’s bedside table held water and
hey . . .
The cacti I’d given him were right next to his head, all the little googly eyes facing his pillow. I stared at them for a second, surprised. “I should probably explain about Ma. She isn’t . . . she doesn’t relate to reality very well. I thought about leaving the casserole behind in the truck, but I promised her I’d bring it. I promised, so if you want just throw it away . . . that’s all right.”
Three pairs of eyes continued their blank accusations. How could I explain? I’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place since I’d come home: between keeping my mother happy and
I couldn’t help smiling when Crispin growled a huskier greeting. “Mm. Hello. I should make jam every day if that’s what I get.”
“Tripp here is going to the hospital to see Lucho.”
Crispin arched an inquisitive brow. “Really?”
“My ma made something for his family.” I’m sure my face caught fire because I wanted to see Lucho despite my legitimate excuse. “Casserole. You know.”
“I told him you probably had something to send with him too.” Malloy had hung his hat on the wall, but he raked his hands through his hair, sort of self-consciously. It was pretty funny, the way he acted around Crispin.
“I do.” Crispin pointed to a square thermal carrier on the counter next to a matching bag. “They say he’ll be in there for a few more days, and I thought he’d like a home-cooked meal.”
“I’ll be happy to take it, if you can point me somewhere I can get cleaned up?”
“There’s a bathroom with a shower off the mudroom, where we came in. First door on the right.”
“Thank you.” I took my duffel and headed for it. I heard murmurs from behind me and felt a blush burn my cheeks. I wasted no time getting there.
Chapter Twelve
After I parked outside the hospital, I sat in the truck for a few minutes. This had to be one of the dumbest things I’d ever done. Inside, Lucho’s family was probably gathered around him—all except that little monster Fausto.
Was I ready to face Lucho’s mother down? Even for a chance to see him again?
He’d softened toward me a little when he was too sick to know better, but what if he was back to despising me? Was I prepared to see those dark eyes filled with contempt?
I grabbed my mother’s casserole, stacked the things Crispin added on top of it, and prepared myself for disappointment.
When I finally figured out how to find him, the door to Lucho’s room was open and goddamnit, he seemed to be
entertaining
. His mother, grandmother, and the man I’d seen drop Fausto off that afternoon were gathered around his bed in borrowed chairs. I cleared my throat before entering, because I had no hands free to knock.
Four similarly hued brown eyes stared at me as if I’d interrupted the Pope giving the last rites.
“Hello.” I cleared my throat again. “Tripp from the J-Bar.”
The older man spoke. “We know who you are.”
“I . . . uh.” I gestured with the food. “Brought you some things.”
Lucho took pity on me, I guess, because he punched a button to raise the head of his bed. “What is it?”
“Crispin sent a hot dish and some sides to go with it.” I handed over the carrier with his dinner, and the bag, which held biscuits and fresh jam. “He thought you’d like a home-cooked meal.”
“And that?” He nodded toward the cold casserole I still held in my hands.
“My—” I swallowed. “My mother sent this for your family. She says to get well soon.”
The older man snorted in disgust. “
Your
mother?”
“I’m sorry about this.” I shook my head as I looked around for somewhere to put things. Lucho’s bedside table held water and
hey . . .
The cacti I’d given him were right next to his head, all the little googly eyes facing his pillow. I stared at them for a second, surprised. “I should probably explain about Ma. She isn’t . . . she doesn’t relate to reality very well. I thought about leaving the casserole behind in the truck, but I promised her I’d bring it. I promised, so if you want just throw it away . . . that’s all right.”
Three pairs of eyes continued their blank accusations. How could I explain? I’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place since I’d come home: between keeping my mother happy and
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