Page 74 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“You don’t have to eat,” she said softly as if reading my mind. “But drink the water, please. He’s due in a meeting soon. I’ll…I’ll make sure everything is left with me.”

She turned without a word and shuffled out the door, closing it softly behind her. I waited three full seconds, listening to the fading sound of her footsteps, before moving toward the tray she’d left behind. I didn’t touch it. Didn’t even lean too close. I just stared at it—like the food might suddenly come to life and reveal what they were hiding.

And that’s when the door opened again—harder this time. Maddox stepped in this time, his face twisted with irritation.

“You’ve caused me huge problems, Gabriella,” he snapped. “I’ve got Wyatt Townsend’s old man and grandfather sniffing around now. They're asking questions I don’t need.”

My fingers curled into fists. “Good. Maybe if you weren’t a murderous son of a bitch, you wouldn’t have people digging into your business.”

He stepped forward fast, but I didn’t flinch.

“Oh, and by the way,” I added, “your secretary? The one you’ve been sleeping with behind your wife’s back? I know all about it. Too bad there’s no prenup in that fancy little marriage of yours.”

His eyes burned, lips curling, and then he shoved me. I stumbled backward, hard and fast, and slammed into the wall before I could catch myself. My head cracked against the concrete, and everything spun and went fuzzy and then everything faded to black.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gabby

The world came back in flashes—disjointed and heavy, like wading through syrup.

I remembered the feeling of a hand on my arm—gentle, steady like it was trying to anchor me. A voice followed, low and soothing, though the words slipped through my mind like water through a sieve. A figure was hunched beside me, whispering something I couldn’t quite hold on to.

Then came the crunch of gravel beneath hurried footsteps, the groan of a car door swinging open, the press of a seat against my back, and finally, the solidthunkas the door closed behind me.

Darkness swallowed me again after that, and when I came to properly, my head throbbed like a marching band had set up camp behind my eyes. Every inch of my body ached like I’d been dropped down a flight of stairs. Twice. My mouth was dry, my limbs were stiff, and I was covered in what I was pretty sure was dirt—or at least ninety percent dirt and ten percent regret.

I groaned and turned my head.

Beside me, hunched over the steering wheel, was the old woman from the site. Her white hair had come partially undone from the bun, and her face was pressed so close to the windshield I thought she might fog it up with her breath. She was perched on what looked like a worn-out phone book, her bony knees tucked awkwardly under the steering wheel. She was squinting so hard through the thickest pair of glasses I’d ever seen that I wasn’t entirely sure her eyes were even open.

Every few seconds, she slammed her hand against the horn, apparently for no other reason than to announce her presence to the world like a foghorn.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she greeted without taking her eyes off the road—or what I hoped was the road. “You’re a little dirty, sorry about that. I kept falling while trying to get you out of there. I’m not as strong as I used to be.”

I blinked slowly. “What…what’s happening right now?”

“If your head hurts, there’s some Tylenol in the glove box,” she added, adjusting her glasses slightly. “Don’t take more than two unless you want to sleep for a week. I've got the kind with the nighttime stuff in it. My arthritis doesn’t care what time it is.”

My hand fumbled for the latch and opened the glove compartment. Sure enough, a battered bottle of Tylenol rolled out, along with a travel-sized sewing kit, a granola bar that had probably expired during the Obama administration, and a packet of tissues covered in lint.

I popped the cap and dry-swallowed two pills while my brain tried to stitch reality back together.

“You’re helping me?” I asked slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Yes, dear. We needed to get out before Colin got back from his meeting.” The car weaved across the center line as if she were guiding a canoe, not a vehicle. “I figured we could find a phone somewhere and call your young man. You do have one, don’t you? A boyfriend?”

I blinked at her. “You mean Webb?”

“If that’s his name,” she shrugged, squinting even harder. “Do you know his number?”

That made me laugh or maybe wheeze. I wasn’t sure what came out.

“Does anyone know anyone’s number anymore? That’s what cell phones are for.”

“I don’t use those stupid things,” she snapped, tapping the steering wheel for emphasis. “I’ve got all the numbers I need in here.” She pointed at her temple proudly.

“Well, the only number I have up there is 911,” I muttered. “So, I think we’re screwed.”

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