The Trouble With Tomboys(6)

“Yeah,” he returned. “I was.”

The way he said “was” about broke her heart.

She wasn’t typically such a softy, but she didn’t understand why people had to suffer. If an animal was in pain, you put it out of its misery.

Once she’d gone with Pop to the vet when they’d had their old, cancer-ridden dog, Charlie Horse, put to sleep. She remembered feeling relieved Charlie wasn’t going to hurt anymore. But B.J. didn’t know how to deal with humans in pain. Couldn’t exactly put them to sleep when they hurt too much.

It bothered her more than she could describe to watch someone’s feelings bleed out. Since Grady Rawlings’ wound was over two years old, it was even more disheartening.

B.J. didn’t do sympathy well, so she shut her trap for the rest of the ride.



****

If a pair of white-hot needles had been jammed

15







into each of his temples, Grady didn’t think his skull could ache any more than it throbbed now. But flying always did that to him, messing with his equilibrium until his head felt like it was going to internally combust.

By the time his meeting let out, all he wanted to do was crawl back to his hotel, find a bed, and overdose on some Tylenol so he could fall into a coma-like state for a week or so.

As his buyer pushed to his feet, he did the same, ignoring the persistent pulse behind his eyes. They both moved out of the way of the table and toward the exit.

“Always good doing business with you, Grady,”

Hammond Weatherly said as he thrust out his hand for a hearty shake.

“You as well,” he murmured, accepting the

Texas-sized grip Weatherly strapped onto his palm.

“Been a while since you came around here,

though. I’d been dealing with your dad so much lately, I kinda figured you’d stepped out of the family business.”

“No,” Grady said. He probably would’ve tacked on a few more comments if his head weren’t so sore.

Then again, he really didn’t want to get into any of the reasons why he’d been off the grid in the past few years. “I’ve been around,” he finally supplied with a lame attempt not to sound rude.

“Well, I don’t know how long it’s been since I last saw you,” Weatherly mused more to himself,

scratching his chin and frowning a second before his face cleared. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at Grady. “Now I remember. Your wife was expecting her first last time we met up.” He grinned.

“Was it a boy or girl?”

For a second, Grady couldn’t talk… couldn’t

breathe. Agony clogged his chest, and he forgot about the hammering in his temples. His vision 16



The Trouble with Tomboys



blurred, going foggy and slanted. He concentrated on sucking oxygen back into his lungs and blinking until the world veered back into focus.

Weatherly didn’t know. About Amy, or the baby, or any of it.

Grady cleared his throat, lowered his eyes to the floor and mumbled, “It was a boy.” Which wasn’t a lie. It had been a boy. A dead boy, but Grady didn’t particularly want to divulge that detail and make the both of them uncomfortable.

Weatherly chuckled and slugged Grady

companionably on the shoulder. “Guess I owe you a belated congratulations, old son. Had any more since the first?”

Unable to speak, Grady shook his head. He

lifted his face and managed a tight smile. “I need to go.” His voice sounded like shredded gravel, but at least he’d managed to utter understandable words.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Weatherly said, taking a step back to let Grady pass. “You got a long drive ahead of you.”

Grady didn’t mention he’d chartered a plane for the trip. Instead he nodded and said over his shoulder as he moved toward the exit, “I’ll make sure our secretary gets back to you on that tax issue.”

“Thanks, Grady. See you around.”

In the outer office, Grady nodded toward the receptionist and strode straight for the exit, looking neither left nor right. He held his briefcase stiffly down at his side as he pushed his way out the door.

The transportation service he’d made arrangements with before coming to Houston already had a car waiting at the curb. The driver held the back door open for him, and without a word, he slid into his seat. The ride back to his hotel was a silent misery.

He stared out the side window, waiting until he 17







could close himself alone in his suite. If he could keep it together until he got to his room, he knew he’d be okay. But traffic was a bitch. They had to take two detours before reaching their destination.

Nearly an hour passed before his chauffer pulled to a stop. Grady managed a brief thank you and exited before the man could come around and open his door. He walked through the overly long lobby, feeling as if everyone was staring at him, thinking he must look miserable, like some kind of defeated widower. An urge rose inside him to stop under the jeweled chandelier in the center of the vestibule and shout at the top of his lungs for everyone to look somewhere else. He was fine. But he knew he was merely being paranoid. No one stared. No one here pitied him. And no one paid him any attention as he pressed the elevator button to wait for the doors to open.