Page 18 of Two-Step
“Sally!” Shock pitches my voice. My best friend works with four-year-olds all day. She’s the epitome of sweetness and patience. “Please get some ice for Mr. Hebert’s arm.”
Sally’s scowl collapses, and she looks back at Mr. Hebert with renewed concern. “I-I’m sorry. Of course.” And she takes off at a run back to the house.
At the SUV things seem to have stalled. Ramon and Beau are still bracing Mr. Hebert, but it looks like he’s having trouble raising his legs to climb into the vehicle.
“I can lift you,Non—”
“Nobody’s lifting me,” Mr. Hebert snaps.
As the three men struggle with Mr. Hebert’s heft—and his dignity—I step away, turning back to join Sally. When I reach the porch steps, she comes out clutching the bundle of ice.
“What. A. Jerk,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes cutting to Mr. Hebert’s nephew.
My gaze follows hers. The guy’s focus is fixed on his uncle, a frown of concern etching his brow. Yeah, he was rude to me, but maybe he’s just worried. And itismy fault Mr. Hebert got hurt.
“I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It’s hard watching someone you love suffer.”
Sally turns her eyes on me and pins me with a look. “Tell me about it.”
I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sally arches an auburn brow. “It means you’re too easy on people who push you around.” She glances back at the men—who are still arguing outside the car—before looking back at me. “It’s hard to watch.”
She’s talking about Moira. I don’t want to talk about Moira.
“I think we should be focusing on Mr. Hebert.”
And then a great roar tears across the lot. Sally and I jump, look to the Range Rover and see Mr. Hebert, half-sitting, half-sprawling across the back seat.
“That didn’t sound good,” Sally whispers.
“No,” I say, watching Mr. Hebert stretch out over the long bench seat. “It didn’t.”
We approach the Range Rover, and Sally, ignoring Beau, hands the ice pack to Ramon who gives it to Mr. Hebert.
Beau leans into the open door. “I’m coming with you.”
“You are not coming with me,” Mr. Hebert grumbles. “I don’t need an escort.”
“Someone should stay with you. What if you need surgery?” Beau asks.
“Oh, are you going to do it?” Mr. Hebert snaps. Even though I’ve only worked with him three times, I’ve never heard him speak with impatience. Is it the pain or his pain-in-the-ass-nephew who brings out his sharp tongue?
But Beau just chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I’m just gonna make sure they put you back together well enough to keep you dancing, old man.”
This shuts up Mr. Hebert—for a minute. “Lock up the studio and follow us.”
Beau nods. “I was planning on doing that.”
Ramon glances between me and Sally. “One of you needs to ride with him,” he says, gesturing to Beau. And now that he says it, the situation hits me. Mr. Hebert is stretched across the whole back seat, leaving just the shotgun spot available.
I look at Sally, who shakes her head, wide-eyed. “I’ll Uber.”
Ramon looks at her, brows creased. “You’re not taking an Uber.” His voice is edged with something new. Possessiveness? Protectiveness? Whatever it is, it’s laced with testosterone. And when did that happen?
Sally blushes. She must hear it too. I think I need to keep a closer eye on the two of them. This development can’t be good.
“No one’s taking an Uber,” Mr. Hebert gripes. “Sally’s riding up front with her boyfriend, and Iris will ride with you, Beau.”
