“Their very young and energetic nanny is home with them, and she’s paid very well,” he said warmly. “My wife passed away after our son was born.”
Kaye’s smile fell. “Oh, dear. How sad.” She touched his arm. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful dad.”
“Thank you.” He smiled ruefully. “Some days I do better than others.”
“That’s parenthood for you. You should bring them by some time. We love kids around here. So much energy.”
“I’ve been meaning to for a while now, actually,” he said. “We’d visit sometimes when my mother was here a few years ago.”
“Well, Brandon’s over there setting up the microphone.” She pointed to the front of the room near the fireplace, where a white-haired gentleman was crouched in front of a microphone stand, his back to the room. “He’s our activities director. You should talk to him.”
“Sounds good. I’ll catch up with you two in...?”
“The kitchen or dining hall,” Triss suggested, and then followed Kaye.
“Let’s get the waters filled on the tables,” Kaye said. “Then we’ll light the centerpiece candles.”
“Got it.”
The dining hall was quiet, and a handful of residents were starting to trickle in. Triss glanced around as she filled water glasses, her focus returning now that Hunter was out of the picture. What had happened with her car had heightened her suspicions. She shifted her gaze to each new guest that entered—residents, caregivers, custodial staff, her fellow grad students. No one seemed to be paying her much attention. If anyone knew she’d been in a life-threatening accident, they weren’t letting on.
Her pitcher ran out again and she headed to the kitchen, standing at the fridge to fill it with filtered water.
“How’s it going out there?”
Triss glanced over at Barb, Creekside’s live-in chef, noting that she’d exchanged her trademark blue apron with smiling cartoon bananas for a plain black one more appropriate for the occasion.
“Good. People are starting to arrive. Need any help in here?”
Barb shook her head. “I’ve got it under control. The family wanted chicken alfredo, though—sorry, there’s not much of a substitute for that.”
“I’ll stick with the salad,” Triss said. “You know I’ve told you not to worry about me.” She had a pretty serious dairy allergy that had necessitated an EpiPen more than once in her life, and Barb couldn’t stand the idea of anyone missing out on a meal.
“I made a couple of chicken-and-rice meals for you. They’re in the fridge if you get hungry later.”
For a split second, Triss wanted to set down the pitcher and hug Barb. But that would be awkward for both of them, so she just said, “Thank you,” knowing that Barb couldn’t possibly understand how touching her thoughtfulness was. More days than she could count, there had been no food in the Everett household when she was younger. Luke was forever scavenging leftovers from restaurants and grocery stores for the three siblings to split, and a well-meaning neighbor sometimes dropped groceries by. It was a wonder Triss had survived those years. She learned many years later that Luke had scoured ingredients labels on the grocery leftovers and had made friends with two local restaurant owners, who saved dairy-free extras regularly for them. They’d had one scare, when she was six, but Luke had managed to get her to a hospital. They’d left with two separate foster families, Triss with an EpiPen. It was the first time they’d been split up—Cal and Luke to one home, and Triss to another. They’d been more careful after that.
With the pitcher topped off, Triss turned from the kitchen, pushing the swinging door open with her arm as Hunter walked in.
She stopped short, water sloshing from the pitcher onto his white button-down.
“Whoa.” He grasped the pitcher, steadying it as Triss took a quick step backward.
“Sorry,” she said, water dripping along her arms, a bubble of laughter threatening at the amused expression on Hunter’s face.
He took the pitcher from her. “Here.” Reaching past her, he grabbed a hand towel and wiped the sides of the pitcher before handing it to her. The tips of his fingers grazed her hand, sending a sudden jolt of awareness straight up her arms.
So. It hadn’t been shock earlier, when he’d lifted her into his arms and every muscle in her body had gone weak, her pulse racing as her hand had clutched a small square of his shirt. It had simply been the effect Hunter had on her. What was it about him?
“You talked to Brandon?” she asked, realizing she’d stood still for a couple of seconds too long.
He nodded. “He said I can bring the kids any day between lunch and dinner—just shoot him an email.”
“Great. Heading home?”
“Figured I’d help out.” He took off his wet tie and shoved it in a pocket, then started unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.
“I think we’ve got things under control,” Triss said, making a move toward the door. “You need to—”
“I’m planning to stick around for a while. I can sit and observe, but I’d much rather have something to do,” Hunter said, moving in front of her and blocking her path as he rolled up the second sleeve.
“Give the man a job, Triss, and out you both go! Too many cooks in my kitchen.”
Triss shot a glare over at Barb even as the woman winked at Hunter and continued prepping several large salads.
“We’re setting tables,” Triss said finally. She pointed to an empty pitcher by the sink. “Go ahead and fill that one up with ice water and meet me in the dining hall.” She scooted past him and turned out of the kitchen.
* * *
Hunter hurried to the pitcher, filling it and heading out the way he’d seen Triss turn. He wanted to tell her to slow down, to sit, to take it easy. But he knew any suggestions wouldn’t just be ignored, they’d be fought. The best he could do would be to stay close, keep an eye on her. Was he overreacting? Maybe. But he’d learned two years ago exactly what could happen when physical symptoms were ignored. His wife had died because of it.
When he turned into the dining hall, he noticed Triss setting down her pitcher and taking a seat next to one of the residents. She leaned forward, empathy in her expression as she listened.
Hunter filled the glasses around the room, his attention flicking to Triss as he did so. She spoke softly to the man, whose dark hair was still winning its battle against gray. Her hand came to the man’s upper arm, soothingly rubbing it as the man wiped away tears. Her tenderness was always a surprise when she let it show, and Hunter wondered often why she worked so hard to hide it.
He’d been intrigued by Triss ever since he’d met her at the gun range during a training session a couple of years ago. She’d never shot a gun in her life, but within hours she was outshooting police veterans. He’d been impressed, but not drawn to her in the least. The loss of his wife was still raw, and Triss emanated no warmth. She didn’t smile even once, and barely spoke the entire day, moving off to the side to eat a quick bagged lunch she’d brought, clearly signaling she wasn’t interested in conversation.
She was gorgeous, with a slim athletic figure, and wide dark eyes set against caramel skin. But her body language created a barrier that told people she was intensely private and happier that way. Still, something about her intrigued Hunter, especially when he learned that Luke was her older brother. Luke had to be one of the most congenial guys Hunter had ever met, and the contrast between the two was striking—even though their sibling bond was obvious to anyone who saw them together.