Done [Running to Love 4] (Siren Publishing Classic) by Allyson Young

thought.
     
    * * * *
     
    Greg pulled up to the curb and turned off the ignition. He picked up the tray holding the coffee and another cinnamon bun from where it rested on the passenger seat and swiveled out of the truck, hitting the lock button as he did so. He walked around the front of the vehicle, actually pursing his lips to whistle. He had hopes that today would be a better day for Lacey and that they might talk a little about what had happened between them. His feet stumbled to a sudden halt as his brain processed the fact that the baby bassinet, the one that had made it all real, made him actually weep with grief and loss, sat on the curb. He cautiously approached it and peered inside. He had a strange premonition that there would be something there, something that he didn’t want to lay eyes on. Instead there was a piece of white paper, printed neatly in dark-blue ink. Lacey was trying to give their child’s bassinet away to someone who might have a use for it.
    The symbolism unmanned him, and Greg’s vision blurred with sudden tears and then cleared at the realization that she had carried the piece of furniture down two flights of stairs and to the curb, fresh out of surgery. His hand itched to correct her little fanny once he ensured she was okay. He ran up the walk and took the steps two at a time, balancing the coffee tray automatically. The apartment door stood open, and Lacey didn’t answer his call. Greg slammed the tray down on the table and checked through the apartment. She wasn’t there, and his heart iced up before he got a hold of himself. She couldn’t have gone far. Her nightshirt lay across the foot of the bed, and she would have had to have taken a few minutes to dress, to write the note and carry out the bassinet. Greg made an educated guess and ran downstairs to knock on Mrs. Withers’s door. Mrs. Withers pulled it open in fairly short order in response to his imperative summons.
    “Is she here?” he asked.
    Mrs. Withers nodded. “I made her a cup of tea, and we’ve been sitting just awhile. Come in, boy. I’ll put the kettle back on.”
    Greg followed the little stooped figure inside, noting that the classic Victorian architecture was reflected in the suite, much as it was in Lacey’s. The hall branched off to two big formal rooms, and onto one with a closed door that he guessed would be the elderly lady’s bedroom and bath, and then ended at the kitchen. Lacey sat at the small bistro-style table, the metal and tile furniture at odds with the rest of the decor, her little feet tucked up on the bottom rung of her chair, both hands wrapped around a tea cup. She looked up at his entry, and Greg tried to tell her how he felt just by looking at her, trying to reestablish their connection, something that had been tantamount to reading one another’s minds, until he had locked her out, pushed her away. Lacey’s face didn’t change and her eyes told him nothing. It broke his heart that she was able to hide from him so effectively. He pushed away the hint of despair and went to her.
    “I would have carried the bassinet down for you, Lacey. You need to let others help you.”
    “I didn’t hurt myself,” she said quietly, her eyes shifting from his. “It wasn’t heavy.”
    Greg heard Mrs. Withers make a little sound that seemed suspiciously like a sob. Shit. He wanted to take Lacey upstairs where they could continue this discussion in private. As if she had read his mind, Mrs. Withers said cheerily, “Well, I hate to shoo you home, dearie, but I have my ladies’ club this afternoon and need to get busy with my baking.”
    Lacy stood so quickly that the metal chair clattered across the old linoleum floor and Greg instinctively reached for her. She backed away and apologized to her landlady. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Withers. I didn’t stop to think what day it was.”
    “No, no, Lacey. I enjoyed our little chat. But your young man probably wants to have you to himself for