She’s Logan’s. I’d never do anything to come between them. But the idea of having that bundle of happiness—even if it’s clouded by Logan’s turmoil at the moment—in my house makes me smile.
Maybe things won’t work out with Cynnie. Maybe I ruined any possibility of anything right from the start. But I’m not giving up. Not yet. Not when what I want—to have my space and life filled with a little girl’s energy—feels so close. I know it can’t be Emily, and maybe it can’t be Cynnie, either. But I’m going to try.
I pull myself out of my chair, shaking the pins and needles out of my legs. I quickly check my programs. Still not cracked the NHS employee database. I’m going to have to send their IT provider a fruit basket or something; they’re working overtime. I’ve broken into the coroner’s office for Exeter and Greater Devon, though. I search Nicholas Porter and download his death certificate, which lists drowning as the cause of death.
Gotcha, bitch.
Smiling grimly to myself and making a note to do a formal records request so we can get a copy that’s admissible in court, I join Emmy in the kitchen.
She’s busy frying sausages, which she must have gone out to get while I was sleeping, because I didn’t have any in. From the groceries she has spread over the counter, it looks like she’s making Logan a greasy breakfast, which will help with the hang-over he’s definitely going to have. I cut up mushrooms and tomatoes for her to add to the pan, then de-crust some bread at her direction. My arteries cringe when she starts frying the bread and I pop a couple of slices into the toaster for a slightly healthier option.
She doesn’t say much as we cook. Her eyes are red, but her cheeks are pale; I’m guessing she did as much crying last night as Logan. When everything’s sizzling away satisfactorily, I open my arms to her. She immediately moves into me, and I envelop her in a huge hug.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper into the mussed, dark curls that tickle my chin.
“That’s what I told Daddy,” she whispers back. “But I’m not sure he believes me.”
“Then we’ll have to convince him. We both have his back, right? He couldn’t have a better power team behind him.”
She giggles softly. “That’s true.”
“Today, we let him chill out and recover from his hangover, but tomorrow, we kick his ass back into touch. No more fucking moping.”
She draws back enough to salute. “We’re the no-moping crew.”
I have to laugh. This is exactly what I love about Emily. “I know you two are taking the week off from everyone, but I think Logan pulling away from his people right now is the worst thinghe could do. You’re the best cheerleader anyone could have, girlie, but he has a big support network, and he needs them.”
Emily nods. “Our stuff can be put on hold until he’s feeling better.”
I reach around her and shake the pan so nothing sticks.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say when I focus back on her. “You always come first for him. He’ll be even more upset if he feels he’s not doing right by you. But he needs to feel supported by his people, too. Controlled doses, yeah? Breakfast with me. Maybe dinner with me and Mac or someone from his club. People he can vent to without fear of judgment.”
“He’d like to see Mac, but he’ll tell Warrin more.”
“Then see if Warrin and his little can come to dinner. Mac’s your backup plan. He’ll be around for a few days.”
Emily squeezes my ribs. “Thank you, Max.”
I want to kiss her forehead so badly my lips ache. I squeeze her back. “Logan’s always been there for me, girlie. This is my first chance to give him a little back.”
She smiles and moves out of my arms to start scooping things out of the frying pan. I rub my arms to soothe away the sense of loss before collecting plates for her out of the cabinets.
When the food’s dished up, I make her wake Logan because even being his best friend doesn’t mean I’m willing to weather his hung-over ass first thing in the morning. I use the time to set the table and text Brenna to let her know Logan’s okay but might need some TLC from his friends at the club over the next few days.
Brenna: On it.
I smile at the text. Logan really does have a good second family through his club. I’m not sure it’s something I would ever want to be part of, but I’m warming up to the idea of going as a guest.
Logan limps to the table with his arm over Emily’s shoulders. She’s not visibly acting as his crutch, but she’s had a lot of practice over the past month and is probably supporting him subtly.
Whether or not he needs help walking, he looks like hell. Skin gray and drawn, eyes red and shadowed. He’s clearly not in any shape to take shit from me, but as a member of the no-moping crew, I can’t coddle him.
“Looking sharp there, buddy,” I tell him, as I push one of the chairs out for him.
He winces. “Wanker.”
Emily helps him settle in the chair before she takes her own seat. I take enough pity on his sorry ass to pour him a cup of coffee.
