Serving Trouble(10)

“For what?” His imagination pieced together parts of an imaginary puzzle. Had she been in an accident? Had someone hurt her?

“Keeping my baby alive for twenty-­seven days.”

“Ah, Josie.” He wanted to reach for her and wrap his arms around her. But he could see her determination eroding. If he pulled her close, she might crumble. And he had a feeling that she needed every ounce of strength right now. “I didn’t know . . .”

That she’d been pregnant. And not a soul in this gossip-­crazy small town had breathed a word about her losing a child.

“No one did. I didn’t even tell my father I was having a baby.” She let out a sharp laugh. “I was planning on it. But then Matt, the guy I was seeing, left.”

He felt a rush of white-­hot anger so damn potent that he would have killed, with his bare hands, the man who’d abandoned Josie. Sweet Jesus, if he’d known . . . But what could he have done from halfway around the world? Hell, he’d been stationed with Caroline and in the end he hadn’t been able to save her.

“If I came home pregnant and alone, I’d just confirm everyone’s opinion that I’m a wild screwup.” She spoke quickly as tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. But she didn’t look away.

“College was my shot to prove them wrong,” she continued. “So I stayed in school. I tried to do everything right. Prenatal vitamins. Organic food even though it cost so much more. I got a babysitting job. And I applied for Medicare. I hadn’t bothered with insurance before. I was healthy. But then my water broke and there was nothing they could do to stop the labor. And he wasn’t ready. My baby was just too early.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. The words sounded hollow and insufficient. His friend’s little sister, a woman who’d been his friend and, hell, even his lover for one brief night, she’d given birth alone. And she’d watched her baby die surrounded by hospital staff.

“But you understand why I need the money.” She swiped at the tears as if determined to press forward. “My world stopped when my water broke, when he was born and he couldn’t breathe. And everything crumbled when he died. There was nothing I could do for him. But I can do this. I can pay back the hospital and doctors who gave me twenty-­seven days with him.”

“Yes, you can,” he said.

“Thank you.” She lowered her chin to her chest and let the tears flow.

Hero or not, he was going to fight like hell for her. He’d known it before the first tear fell. But this time he was stepping into the fight with a big fat failure on his record. When he’d jumped to Josie’s aid in the alley, he’d known he would win. But now? He didn’t have a clue how to erase the grief and pain. He wasn’t sure how to help her earn that kind of money.

“The job is yours, Josie,” he said gruffly. “For as long as you need it.”

And that was all he could promise.

JOSIE FOUGHT THE tears. He’d given her what she needed—­a job. She’d found a way to earn money that didn’t involve babysitting. With her resume, and in the current job climate, it felt like a miracle.

But she’d secretly hoped to earn her position. Prove herself. Instead, she’d hidden from her ex and spilled a tray of drinks followed by the truth. She told him about Morgan, the baby she’d named after her late mother when she still had a sliver of hope he’d survive.

And Noah had handed her the job.

“I should get out there,” she said, and by some miracle her voice sounded even, almost normal.

“You don’t have to finish your shift. Your dress is still wet and . . .”

“And I look like I’ve been crying? I can fix my makeup in the bathroom. Plus, you handed me a new waitress uniform.” She held up the shirt and forced a smile.

“No.” He shook his head. “I gave you something to cover you up when you walked to your car.”

“But it’s crowded out there.” She pulled the shirt over the vodka-­soaked material clinging to her boobs like a second skin. She tied the excess fabric in a knot at her back. The T-­shirt looked cute, as if she’d planned a retro look with a black miniskirt.

“We’ll manage,” he said. “You can come back tomorrow.”

“But I’m here now.” She placed her hands on her hips. Sparring with him felt good. In the past eighteen months since she’d left the intensive care unit to bury her baby instead of raise him, she’d discovered she could only stomach so much pity. She didn’t want any more than he’d already offered—­a simple “I’m sorry.” Pity didn’t change the past or pay her bills.