Fuck it.
He knew that Gemma wouldn’t want him to be miserable and alone. And she definitely wouldn’t want him to hurt someone he cared about, to push her away, to let something happen to her.
Grabbing up his keys and a blanket, he put on a jacket, boots, gloves, and a hat. Then he headed out to his truck. He’d just go halfway down the road towards town. Maybe she’d stayed in town. If he had her phone number, then he could have tried calling her.
But he was an idiot who didn’t even have his neighbor’s phone number.
He drove carefully out of the driveway and down the road. Fuck. Visibility was shit. He strained his eyes, searching for any sign of her.
Please, let her be safe.
His gut churned. He couldn’t lose someone else he cared about again. He just couldn’t.
After about ten minutes, he saw something moving along the side of the road. For a moment, he thought it was an animal.
Because he couldn’t even comprehend that she might be walking. In the snow. Along the road.
He slowly came to a stop, only putting on his brakes lightly. Then he put the truck in park and jumped out, just as she collapsed onto her knees in the snow.
“Lucie!” he roared.
She looked up, appearing dazed.
“Fuck, Lucie.” Reaching her, he grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. Shit. He gathered her against him. “Lucie, what happened? Are you all right?”
“Atticus? Am I dreaming then? Oh no, am I dead? I died, didn’t I? That’s so sad,” she wailed.
“Hush, baby.”
“I’m dead, though. I should get to be as loud as I want.”
“Lucie, hush,” he told her more fiercely.
She sniffled. “Will you miss me? Will you at least miss my muffins?”
“Lucie, you’re not fucking dead.” He drew her back, glaring down at her.
“I’m not?”
Hell. What was he doing? He needed to get her home and warm. Who knew how long she’d been walking for.
“Come on, let’s get you in the truck.” He wrapped an arm around her and half-carried her to his truck. He lifted her into the passenger side.
“I’m really not dead? You’re really here?”
“I’m here.” He shut the door and quickly moved to his side. He had to get her home.
When he climbed in, she leaned over and hugged him tight. “You came for me!”
Crap. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? He fucking hated when she cried.
He patted her awkwardly on the back. “You’re all right. Hush. Sit back and fasten up your belt.”
“Even though you hate me, you came for me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, you do. You hate me. I broke the photo frame.”
“I don’t hate you for breaking the photo frame.” Jesus. He turned the heat up on full blast, then tried to extricate himself from her hold so he could grab the blanket from the back seat.
“Yes, you do. I broke the frame that held a picture of you and your wife on your wedding day. I hate me too.”
Fuck it.
He grabbed her hands and drew them away from him.
“What sort of gloves are these?” he barked, looking down at the thin material.
“Um, old ones?”
“And why isn’t your hat pulled down further? It’s not even covering your ears. You lose too much heat through your head.” He drew her hat down over her ears. And that’s when he saw the blood. “Why the hell are you bleeding?”
His yell made her wince. She swore they would have heard him yell back in town.
“I hit my head,” she told him in a small voice.
“How did that happen?” he asked calmly as he reached back and grabbed a blanket, then tugged it over her lap. She was finally starting to feel the warmth of the truck. Her teeth started chattering. That was a good sign, right?
“When the t-truck crashed.”
“And how did that happen?”
“Cause s-something ran out onto the road. I think. I dunno. It all h-happened quick and Queenie c-crashed into a tree.” She sniffed. “Queenie’s broken.”
He didn’t say the obvious. That Queenie was already broken. She loved that truck, rust and all.
“Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need medical attention?” he asked urgently. “How long were you walking?” He took her hand in his, feeling for her pulse.
“You’re s-so sweet. You must have been a g-great Daddy to your wife.” Then she froze as she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I, uh . . .”
He eyed her. “I wish I had been. Gemma was my wife and Little for ten years. We met at a BDSM club. I loved her with all my heart.”
She sniffled. “I know. I can tell. I’m sorry about the photo.”
“Jesus, I don’t care about the frame, Lucie.” He let out a breath. “Fasten your seatbelt.”
“But you were angry and you’ve been avoiding me. I get it, I do—”
“Lucie, you don’t get anything,” he interrupted, looking grumpy. “I haven’t been avoiding you because of that. I’ve been avoiding you because . . . because I fucking feel something for you. Something I haven’t felt for anyone but my wife.”
“Wh-what?” she asked.
He gripped the steering wheel tight. “Love. I love you, Lucie. Now, buckle your damn seatbelt.”
Chapter Seven
Lucie sat in front of the roaring fire in Atticus’ house, wondering what the hell had just happened.
After he’d told her that he loved her, he’d retreated again. It probably didn’t help that she hadn’t known what to say to him.
What she should have said was that she loved him as well. But she’d been struck mute, unable to even think. So they’d driven back here to his place in silence. When they’d arrived, he’d insisted on carrying her inside. He’d doctored her head, and made her take some painkillers which had thankfully started kicking in. The bubble bath he’d run for her had helped as well.
After her bath, her Cookie Monster pajamas had been waiting for her just outside the bathroom door along with a pair of woolly socks, her slippers, and robe. She guessed he’d used her keys to pop over to her place because Princess Pickles was waiting for her on the living room sofa.
Right next to Ziggy. He’d brought her Ziggy. She would have hugged Atticus if he hadn’t gruffly told her to sit down so he could bundle her up with about a hundred blankets in front of a roaring fire. She was so hot that she was sweating. But every time she tried to move, it was like Atticus had some sort of sixth sense and appeared in the room, giving her a look that told her she best sit back down real quick.
So here she sat, still in shock. And really, really warm. Seriously, she was starting to dehydrate.
“Here you are. Drink this.” He pushed a cup of hot chocolate into her hands. The top of it was swimming with marshmallows.
That did it.
Tears dripped down her cheeks. What was wrong with her? She’d been an emotional wreck for days. And now, here she was, crying over freaking hot chocolate and marshmallows. When would he even have bought these? They had to be for her, right?