Page 51 of Lost With You
Garrick’s smile turned teasing. “Send her my love.”
“I damn well won’t.”
“Then tell her I have to fly to San Francisco tonight.” Garrick strode through the hall like a man on a mission. “I’m buying a winery tomorrow.”
“Wait a minute.” Dylan put a hand on the small of her back in a way that ensured his friend would see it. “You hate wine, Garrick.”
“Yeah, but my brother loved it. You know he always wanted a place of his own.” Garrick’s look spoke a thousand words, though all those words swept right over her head. “Seeing what you and your partner just accomplished for Pops has locked in my decision. Dominic deserves a tribute, don’t you think?”
Dylan nodded. “Good luck with it.”
A twenty-minute drive later, Garrick said his farewells at the door to the hotel. A glittering Welcome Home banner hung across the entrance, decorated with whiskey-jug logos that looked like they’d been cut out of cardboard by five-year-olds. They probably had. Dylan grasped her arm to hold her back from entering.
His blue eyes looked as weary as she felt.
He said, “Sorry about this.”
“What?”
“The madness that’s about to happen.” He tilted his head toward the hotel. “My family likes a party, remember? They celebrate everything.”
She put her hand on his. “This is worth celebrating.”
“It is.” His jaw flexed. “But we haven’t had a moment to talk since the canoe capsized.”
“I know.”
Her stomach dissolved into tingles as he glanced over her head, around the grounds, seeking privacy, escape. But shouts erupted before he could do or say anything more. The automatic glass door whooshed open to a crowd that spilled out. Dylan’s face fell. He looked at her with apology and promise, just before they were shuttled into the lobby by the well-wishers.
The lobby of the hotel had been decorated like a preschool’s Thanksgiving party. Someone thrust a cup of punch in her hand—a punch that had likely been spiked, Dylan warned—right before he was tugged away for pictures. She smiled at all the vaguely familiar faces surrounding her, leaned into the hugs, tried to answer one question before the next one was asked.
Anne came to her side and looked her over with hawk’s eyes, appalled, before striding away just as fast, but with new purpose. She returned a few minutes later to push a room key into her hand. Casey couldn’t help herself—she gushed her thanks and wondered how long she was expected to stay and how quickly she could politely leave.
Then the crowd parted before her. Dylan wheeled an elderly man in her direction. She took in Pops’ wizened face and the wool blanket covering his knees and saw in the lopsided grin on his face the mischievous woods-running lawbreaker he’d once been.
“Remember Casey, Pops?” Dylan came around to stand at her side. “She was my expedition partner. I couldn’t have found the jug at the portage head without her help.”
“Dylan told me so many of your stories during the trip.” She grasped his hand and held it in two of her own. “It was such a thrill to walk the old paths.”
Pops pulled her hand close and lifted it to his mouth for a kiss.
The crowd around them erupted in whistles and laughter. The elderly man ignored it all, and the twinkle in his eye suggested he’d made many a fair maiden fall in his younger years.
“Did Dylan tell you?” She glanced up at Dylan to ask permission, and he gave her a nod. “The marker is still standing, Pops. The jug your father left there all those years ago.”
“No other way to find Morgan’s Pass. She’s a pretty one.” Pops winked while he raised their clasped hands between them. “When are you going to marry her, son?”
Gasps and surprised laughter rippled around them. She didn’t dare look up at Dylan, afraid of what she’d see in those blue, blue eyes.
“I don’t know, Pops.” Dylan crouched beside the wheelchair and raised his head to catch her gaze. “I haven’t asked her yet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Jillian,” Casey said, gripping the phone in her hotel room. “You are not helping me.”
“Of course I’m helping.” Casey heard the distinct sound of her therapist sucking on a cigarette. “It’s ten o’clock, I’m alone in my Manhattan apartment, and I’m spending a Friday evening listening to my favorite patient. Believe me, that’s helping.”
Casey pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d been on the phone with Jillian for so long that her hair was almost dry after a long, hot shower. “I called for advice. Guidance. Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”
