Chapter 4

Michael dropped the bag of clothes on the couch, peeled off his wet jacket, and went into the bathroom to wash up. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. He changed into dry clothes, ran a towel through his hair, and considered just collapsing on the bed.

While shopping, Michael had been turning over what Sabrina had said earlier. She was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. The problem was, he wasn’t sure he had it in him. Talking about feelings wasn’t his strong suit. He hadn’t really opened up to anyone since Curt and his wife had died. When his editor had suggested therapy, he’d nearly bitten her head off.

Sabrina would be far better at talking to Emma. The woman was like some kind of unstoppable force. And Michael ... well, he avoided caring too much about people. It always came with the risk of pain—especially if you lost them.

What could he possibly say to help Emma? She had been sad, angry, resentful, and clearly hurting. She still was. She had never truly healed—just learned to ignore the wound. And maybe that was what scared him the most: they were more alike than he cared to admit. The only difference was that Sabrina thought he could help, but he wasn’t so sure.

He made two mugs of hot chocolate using the little Keurig on the nightstand. He added extra sugar to one—Emma’s mug—and paused at their door.

“Ooh, is that food I smell?”

Emma hurried to his side, surprisingly wrapped in a hotel robe. Few hotels stocked them anymore.

“I called down to the desk,” she explained absently, already rifling through the bags. “Most places still sell them. They’re adding it to the room bill.”

She grinned as she pulled out the bag of clothes. “You found clothes too? You’re the man, Uncle!”

“I found a 24-hour truck market,” Michael said with a modest shrug. “Amazing what they carry in those places.”

She was already ignoring the food and laying out the clothes on the bed, inspecting the selection.

“Nice,” she said, holding up a black T-shirt with the slogan, “I’m not short. I’m concentrated awesome,” printed across the chest. “Where’s Sabrina?”

“My bathroom, I think,” Michael replied. “Be careful—she might have just gotten out of the shower—”

Too late. Emma was already through his room and into the bathroom.

He winced at the sound of Sabrina’s startled squawk, followed by a muffled curse and an exasperated, “Do you have any boundaries?”

“Sorry!” Emma called, deflated. She stepped back into view, her face clouded with guilt. “I used to talk to my mom all the time while she was in the bathroom. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

She started to leave, but Sabrina appeared at the doorway, biting her lip with regret.

“So did I,” Sabrina said gently.

Emma paused, then turned back, eyes wide with surprise. “Really?”

“Yes. She’s a great mom,” Sabrina added with a smile. “I’ll tell you about her while I try to dry my hair.”

The girls disappeared into their room, voices already overlapping with chatter.

Michael, doing his best not to glance at the closed door, turned to unpack the rest of the bags. He retrieved a few items from his travel bag, including a black tank top, a medium T-shirt, and yoga pants for Sabrina, and more clothes for Emma. He knocked on their door.

“Come in!” Emma called cheerfully.

“I brought peace offerings,” he said, holding up a mug. Sabrina wasn’t in the room. He was about to set the clothes and the mug down when the bathroom door opened and Sabrina stepped out, wrapped in a towel.

He froze.

She wasn’t uncovered exactly, but that towel didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her skin glowed from the shower, and the damp ends of her hair trailed over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, forcing his gaze upward. “I brought you some clothes. And some hot cocoa.”

“You found clothes?” Sabrina’s face lit up.

He couldn’t help smiling in response. “I guessed you were a medium, but wasn’t sure if you’d prefer the tank top. It’s kind of cold, so—”

“Cold doesn’t bother me,” she replied, reaching for the tank top—just as he’d hoped she would.