Run To You (Puppy Love Romance Book 2)

by Georgia Beers

  She stared at him, at the horrible expression of realization on his face, realization that he couldn’t take back what he’d said, what he’d caused, and then she moved. It was as if her body had snapped into motion, leaving her brain a step or two behind. She ran into the bedroom, ripping off the robe and dressing faster than she ever had before. Jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, socks. Her hair was still wet, but she didn’t care. She ran back out into the living room to the foyer and stomped her feet into her boots.

  “Give me your keys,” she said to Clark, not looking at him as she grabbed her coat.

  “What? But that’s the only car—”

  “Give me your keys.” She held out her hand and knew her face brooked no argument. Clark stood, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his keys. She snatched them from his hand and was out the door like a shot. She yanked open the door of the Benz and was skidding out the unplowed driveway within seconds.

  There was only one thought on her mind. She had to fix this. She had to make it right, because what she’d said to Clark was suddenly crystal clear to her. Honest and solid and true. It had surprised her, but it hadn’t.

  She loved Catherine, which made everything much worse. Everything. All of it. So very much worse.

  But…she had to tell her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE DRIVE WAS DICEY, but that ended up being a good thing for Catherine. It forced her to focus on the road and on her driving rather than dwelling upon an incredible night that had morphed into the most horrific of mornings. Now as she pulled into her mother’s driveway, though, it all came flooding back.

  She didn’t want to believe it. In fact, it was almost physically impossible. For Emily to be so callous? Catherine couldn’t see it. She hadn’t really shown signs of that, had she? Narcissism? Deception? She’d been nothing but charming, and as far as Catherine could tell, honest. But then she heard Clark’s words—You don’t really know my sister very well, do you? Think about it. You have no idea what she might actually be like—and the doubt came rushing in like a flood. Because he was right. She didn’t know Emily that well. It was entirely possible that Clark was telling the truth.

  Wasn’t it?

  Unbidden, her mind threw her a memory from the night before, of Emily above her, inside her, their eyes locked, their bodies moving together as if nobody else in the world existed but the two of them. Emily had been focused, completely with her. Hadn’t she? Had Catherine misread that?

  Running had been a dumb idea. She’d figured that out when she’d passed from hazardous, mostly unplowed country roads to the black pavement of city streets, but at that point, she was nearly to her mother’s and turning back wasn’t an option. And she also felt silly and childish. Emily at least deserved a chance to defend herself, didn’t she?

  Catherine dropped her head against the steering wheel and groaned. “God, I’m a mess,” she said to the emptiness of the car. Giving herself a moment to decompress, she then took a deep breath and got out of her car, steeling herself for the barrage of questions sure to come from her mother and sifting through her brain for answers that wouldn’t make her burst into tears.

  At the door, she knocked, then stepped inside. The sharp bark that came from the kitchen made her smile, she couldn’t help herself, and Mo came skidding out to see her. Squatting to pet him, she wrapped him in her arms and held on, mortified to feel her eyes well up. “It’s so good to see you, pal,” she whispered even as he squirmed to free himself from her too-tight grasp.

  “So? How was it?” Catherine’s mother’s smile was evident in her voice, though Catherine kept her eyes on her dog, not yet trusting herself to look her mom in the face and not lose it. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

  “Yeah, well.” Catherine let that sit as she continued to kiss all over a wiggling Mo, and her mother’s silence told her that she was simply waiting until Catherine was ready to address the subject. Knowing she had to stand up eventually, she decided it was better to simply get it over with. Sighing as she rose, she met her mother’s smiling, expectant face, and watched as her expression changed to one of worried concern.

  Laying a warm hand gently against Catherine’s face, Denise said, “Oh, baby, what happened?”

  This was not the gesture that was going to keep Catherine from crumbling into a blubbering mess, and she felt her eyes well up again immediately, much to her dismay. What was it about the gentle, loving touch of your mother that could so instantly pull all your emotions out into the open, leave them crying on the floor?

  “I’m not sure,” Catherine answered honestly, as one tear spilled over and coursed slowly down her cheek.

  Her mother wiped it away with her thumb. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

  Catherine shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “You’re sure?”

  A nod was all Catherine could muster. She didn’t trust her voice any longer.

  “Okay. I’ll be right here when you’re ready.” Her mother pulled Catherine into a hug that Catherine simultaneously wanted, needed, and wished to avoid at all costs. It was only by clenching her jaw so tightly she expected a bone to crack that she was able to keep from openly sobbing in her mother’s embrace.

  Gently extricating herself, Catherine wiped her face and wordlessly took the leash her mother handed her, bent to clip it to Mo’s collar.

  “He was an angel,” her mother said, the cheerful tone of voice telling Catherine she was doing her best to lighten the mood. “Well, except for when he found the bathroom wastebasket.”

  Catherine gave her dog a look. “Mr. Geronimo.” He cocked his head at her. “It’s a damn good thing you’re so cute. Thanks, Mom.” She avoided making eye contact, knowing it was the best way to maintain control, and took her dog home.

  The remainder of the morning and into the afternoon was spent cleaning her house. She dusted. She vacuumed. She mopped the kitchen floor—her least favorite job on the planet. She did laundry. Anything to keep her hands and mind occupied. Mo followed her around the house in curiosity for a while before giving up and retreating to the couch to nap.

  She should call Emily. She knew she should. Also, though, she was kind of surprised Emily hadn’t called her. Unless she was embarrassed that her secret had been revealed. Catherine swallowed hard as she sprayed Windex on the window of her front door. If Clark had been telling the truth, it made perfect sense that Emily wouldn’t call, didn’t it? But still. She should call Emily, if not to give her a chance to explain, if not to apologize for running away like a child, then at least to let Emily know how much she’d hurt her.

  This is how her thoughts went for the better part of four hours. Around and around and around. And just when she was about to go mad, ready to scream in frustrated anger, her cell phone rang. She stopped cleaning the stove, her hand stilling in mid-scrub, and she stood perfectly still.

  Pulling the phone slowly from her back pocket, she saw a name that surprised her. She let it ring one more time before thinking, This oughta be good, and answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Catherine? It’s Clark Breckenridge. Look, I’m really sorry about earlier. I was out of line. I shouldn’t have said what I said and I’m so, so sorry.” He was talking quickly and his voice held a strange tone she couldn’t identify, but seemed a lot like worry.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Listen, I’ m calling because, um…” He cleared his throat. “There was an accident.”

  Catherine’s heart began to pound in her chest. “Emily?”

  “Yeah. She…she left the cabin and went after you in my car, and I never put my snow tires on, so—”

  “The roads were bad. It was so slippery. Oh, my God.” Catherine turned in a circle in her kitchen, looking for…she didn’t know what. Her brain raced, her breathing came in shallow gasps. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure. I had to get someone to come and get me. They took her to the hospital, then called me after the p
olice found my registration. She didn’t have any ID with her. She was unconscious. They didn’t know who to call.” His voice cracked, something so utterly unexpected from the likes of Clark Breckenridge that it made Catherine stop and consciously process the sound.

  “Which hospital?” she asked quietly.

  “General.”

  Catherine hung up the phone and ran to her coat closet.

  Emily had been in an accident.

  She grabbed her coat, stomped into her shoes, yanked her purse from its hook, grabbed her keys, and was out the door in five seconds flat.

  Emily had been in an accident.

  In that moment, any anger, any hurt, any confusion left Catherine, at least for the time being. All that mattered was that she get to Emily, touch her, make sure she was all right. She started her car, jammed it into gear, and drove toward the hospital like a lunatic.

  When she pulled into the hospital’s parking garage twenty minutes later, she was kind of shocked she hadn’t been pulled over. She’d pushed her speedometer to numbers that were much too high and now that she’d arrived at her destination, she felt the guilt settle over her. Two car accidents in one day would just be stupid.

  She found a spot, race-walked/jogged to the entrance, and stopped at the Information Desk to get a room number.

  Sixth floor.

  Not the ICU.

  Thank God.

  With a deep breath in and a slow breath out, Catherine stepped into the elevator and willed her heart to ease up, to relax a bit. She stood next to a handsome young man in blue scrubs as he scrolled on his phone. He’d gone a little heavy on the aftershave that day, and she watched the numbers above the door, willing them to hurry so she could have some fresher air. At six, the doors slid open and Catherine stepped out, looking left and right until she figured out where room 612 was.

  As quickly as she’d moved since Clark’s phone call, she now walked very slowly. A sense of trepidation fell over her for two reasons. First, what kind of shape would Emily be in? That worried her. Seeing her banged up, hurt, struggling in any way would be hard. Second, Catherine needed to talk to her, needed to talk about this morning. Clark had apologized. Did that mean he’d been lying? While she hoped so, she also knew that wouldn’t shine the best light on her.

  She stood outside room 612 for a long moment, eyes on the ‘E. Breckenridge’ lettered in black marker on the small whiteboard next to the door. Another deep breath in, steeling herself. She knocked gently and pushed the door open.

  Emily lay in the bed, eyes closed and underscored by dusky bruising. Dark hair down and disheveled, her left hand in a green cast, and Catherine was so relieved to see her looking only slightly injured that a small cry of relief escaped from her lips before she could stop it.

  Emily’s eyes opened and she turned them on Catherine. A very clear succession of emotions ran across her face: happiness, then hurt, then anger. Catherine saw them so plainly, they almost frightened her, almost kept her from approaching, but she pushed forward as she stepped toward the bed.

  “Thank God you’re okay.” Catherine moved to the bed, stood there.

  Emily studied her, her brown eyes burrowing into Catherine’s, making her squirm. Catherine had to make a conscious effort not to look away, but she couldn’t last long. She lay her fingers on Emily’s bare forearm where it rested on the sheets. With her eyes, she indicated the cast on her other arm. “Broken, huh?”

  Emily lifted it, looked at it as if for the first time, then dropped it back down. “Yep. Here’s a tip: you shouldn’t brace yourself with your wrist when you’re about to skid into a tree trunk.”

  Catherine reached for Emily’s face, but Emily’s good arm came up to block it. Gently, but it was still a rebuff. “Your face…”

  “Bloody nose. Airbag. No big deal.” Emily brought her own fingers to her nose. “Black and blue for a while.”

  Catherine swallowed. “Emily…”

  “You believed him.”

  Catherine chewed on her bottom lip and was silent for a moment before responding. “I know. It was knee-jerk, just a reflex, but…”

  Emily’s eyes filled with tears, which obviously irritated her because she shook her head and turned toward the window, as if she no longer wanted to look at Catherine.

  “I shouldn’t have. I know. I just…he was so smarmy and cocky, and the way he sat and the things he said…” Catherine looked away. “I panicked.”

  “After the night we had?” Emily’s voice was low, but sharp, and she was clearly angry now. Catherine flinched at her words. “Seriously?”

  “It was an amazing night,” Catherine said softly. “It was. I…being with you is so new and different than anything I’ve ever experienced before. I—”

  “How am I supposed to know that?” Emily’s eyes flashed. “From all the times you’ve told me? From all the times you’ve mentioned how you feel? From how open you are when you talk to me? Oh, wait…”

  Catherine bit down hard on her lips. “I know,” she said softly. “I don’t often say what I’m thinking.”

  “No, Catherine, you don’t ever say what you’re thinking. You let me flounder. You let me wonder. You let me figure it out. You’re like a goddamn endless puzzle. And I have worked so hard these past two months—so hard—to understand you, to learn you, to not try to change you because I happen to like you just the way you are and I think you’re worth the effort. And yet, the first time you hear something unflattering about me, do you stop to ask me? Do you give me a chance to respond? Are you at all interested in what I might have to say about it? No. What do you do? You run. You make a judgment and you run. Because apparently, I’m not worth the effort to you.”

  “Emily…”

  “No, it’s okay. I get it now. I understand. It’s crystal clear. No worries. You can go.”

  Catherine didn’t know what to do, what to say. She’d never seen Emily angry—and this was more than anger. It was hurt. It was pained anger and Catherine had put it there. She searched for words, was almost glad she couldn’t find them, as she wasn’t sure she could push them past the lump in her throat. Emily was right. Her anger was warranted and everything she’d said had been correct…except the part about Emily not being worth it.

  “Go.” Emily turned her gaze back toward the window, effectively dismissing Catherine.

  “Emily, please. I just want to say—”

  Emily’s head snapped back in her direction, which must have caused her some pain judging from the wince that crossed her face. “Oh, now you want to talk?” Her dark eyes, normally so soft and full of joy and love, flashed with anger and hurt, the bruising under them only serving to accentuate it, her brows meeting above her nose. “Well, guess what. I don’t feel like it. We should have just listened to everybody who told us what a bad idea this was. You know? I had to listen to it from my mother for over an hour when she got here. With a possible concussion, so you can probably imagine the raging headache I have right now.” She waved her hand toward the door, and when she saw the unshed tears glimmering in her eyes, Catherine knew that Emily wasn’t angry at her. She was devastated by her. Which was so much worse.

  “Emily.” Catherine tried unsuccessfully to swallow down the anguish she felt.

  “Don’t you see it, Catherine?” Emily’s voice was barely a whisper. “They were right. They were all right. You and me? We’re a terrible idea.” She turned away. “Just go. Please.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  Catherine’s breath hitched and she couldn’t stop the one tear that spilled out of her eye and rolled down her cheek.

  Emily didn’t look at her again.

  At the door, Catherine turned back and almost ran into the woman who, up to this point, she’d only seen in photographs and on the news. Cheryl Breckenridge was even more regal, commanded even more attention and respect in person. Catherine was no shrinking violet, but the glare she received from Emily’s mother was enough to make her skin flush hotly and sever eye contact. />
  “What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.

  “I’m sorry. I—” Catherine flinched as she was interrupted.

  “I don’t want to hear your apologies or your sorry excuses. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

  It was a line straight out of a nighttime soap opera, and yet it still had the intended effect. Catherine’s eyes welled up and her throat clogged, preventing her from speaking.

  “Mom.” Emily’s voice was quiet but firm. “Leave her alone. She’s leaving.”

  “I should hope so.” Cheryl looked her up and down, and Catherine could tell by her expression that she’d been found to be lacking.

  Catherine turned to look over her shoulder and when she met Emily’s gaze, she saw what she could only believe was a mirror image of her own emotions: anger, yes. Hurt, definitely. Sadness, of course. But there was something else there as well, something Catherine hadn’t seen because she hadn’t allowed herself to see it.

  Love.

  She was sure of it. She was sure of it because she knew what it felt like. What it looked like. And she knew.

  “Are you waiting for me to hold the door?” Cheryl’s voice snapped her back to the room, back to reality.

  “No,” Catherine said softly. She looked at Emily once more, but she’d turned away again. “I’m sorry, Emily. I hope you know that.”

  Emily didn’t look at her. Catherine avoided the searing eyes of Cheryl Breckenridge, swallowed down the lump in her throat, and turned to go, pretty sure she could feel her own heart cracking in her chest.

  ***

  Emily had to give her mother some credit; she waited a good three minutes after Catherine’s departure before she started in on her.

  “That girl,” she said while shaking her head in disapproval. “I told you to stay away from her.”