Consumed (Firefighters #1) by J.R. Ward

Author:J.R. Ward [Ward, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Women, Romance, Fiction, Contemporary
ISBN: 9781501194924
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2018-10-02T07:00:00+00:00

chapter

26

Anne didn’t want to be rude. But by the time Danny got Josefina to the glowing entrance of the emergency room, she had a pounding headache and a knot in her stomach that might have been hunger but felt like a bowel obstruction.

The fact that she was sitting in between the two of them didn’t help. The entire trip back, which lasted all of ten minutes but felt like twenty-five years, she’d had Danny’s leg bumping against her own. Just like old times in the engines.

Not what she wanted to be reminded of, especially after what they’d done at his apartment.

Danny found a parking spot right by the ER’s entry, and Josefina fumbled her purse as she got out, dumping everything over the pavement. Anne immediately dropped down to the pavement help the woman gather keys and wallet, Tampax and makeup bag.

“Listen, I’m going to let Danny take you in.” Anne passed over a Kleenex pack. “There are a lot of people here already.”

“Thank you for coming and getting me.”

Anne looked away from those teary brown eyes. “No problem. Take care of him.” Straightening, she looked over the truck’s hood at Danny. “I have to go.”

His eyes were in shadow, and that was just as well. She didn’t want to see what was in them.

As she waved and headed for her Subaru, she felt like she was dumping the whole situation on him—and that was not perception; it was fact. But she was a distant relative to all of this now, and she needed to respect the boundaries.

Back in her own vehicle, she got turned around and ended up exiting through the entrance, which felt like a commentary on the night. But at least she was free of it all.

She was going to go home, check and see if there was anything chewed up, and then go to bed early.

Or that was the plan.

When she came up to her little house and saw a familiar car parked in front of her walkway, she hit the brakes. And then debated if she could just drive on by.

Her mother.

Pulling into her driveway, she got out and went on the approach. As she came up to the ten-year-old Honda Civic, the window went down—and she realized she hadn’t actually set eyes on her mom for months.

Nancy Janice Fitzgerald Ashburn did not look her sixty years. She’d never been a smoker or a drinker, had stayed out of the sun and followed a “regime”—whatever that was. So even without plastic surgery, her pale Irish skin was still fair and largely unwrinkled, the powder and foundation light, the lashes curled and darkened, the lipstick a perfect shade of pink for that complexion. And of course, the hair was done. She colored it to cover the grays, but not in a brassy way: Ginger streaks through the auburn, everything cut well so it framed her face and brushed her shoulders.

“I was going to call you,” Anne lied.

“I am so sorry to bother you, but I can’t reach your brother.

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