Crazy Little Thing Called Love (14 page)

Did Brady think he really wanted to discuss this now? While one very early, very angry hurricane chased them out of Destin? And with Max sitting a few feet behind him?

“I
am
responsible!” He whispered the bitter truth through clenched teeth. “I am responsible for Max . . . and you . . . and Jules. I'm the team leader. And that night I blew it. There's no getting around that.”

“We're all a part of the Stormmeisters by choice, Logan. No one forces us to chase storms. We all love the life—the adventure—as much as you do. And anyone else could have made that mistake—”

“But you didn't.
I did.
”

Rain obscured the windshield, the wiper blades fighting against the watery onslaught. Logan's breath came in short puffs, as if he'd been running rather than driving through a torrential downpour, a hurricane at his back.

He unclenched his hands. Huffed out a breath. “Let's drop it, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

“Thanks.”

Brady lowered his voice. “I'm sorry—”

“Let me just concentrate on driving.”

With a quick nod, Brady settled back in the seat.

Good. No more conversation. Because really, if anyone should be apologizing, it should be him. To Max. To Brady. To Julie.

But he'd wait until after the storm passed. And then he'd declare his repentance. Tell them that he was done. That he was disbanding the Stormmeisters. Of course, the team could choose to go on without him—if they had the funding. They were all adults, free to make their own decisions.

He just hoped they would respect his decision . . . and he would respect theirs.

•  •  •

Why weren't the Wrights answering the door? Had they left during the earlier voluntary evacuation phase? Or had their daughter come and picked them up last night just in case the storm got worse?

Vanessa pounded on the wooden door again, pressing the doorbell at the same time, the wind blowing the rain against her back, further soaking her hair and jeans. Her Windbreaker was little protection against the storm's onslaught—and she'd been standing on the doorstep for more than five minutes.

As she peered through the tempered glass oval in the middle of the door, it swung open, Mrs. Wright framed in the middle of the doorway wearing a coral bathrobe and her slippers.

“Vanessa.” The woman's smile was as welcoming as always. “How nice of you to come and visit again so soon.”

Vanessa wrapped her arms around the smaller woman, inhaling the comfort of her familiar perfume. “Oh, Mrs. Wright, I'm so glad you're okay.”

“Well, why wouldn't I be?” The older woman patted her back, ignoring the fact that Vanessa was dripping wet. “I'm just making breakfast for Mr. Wright. He's still sleeping upstairs. He's not an early riser.”

Not good.

“Have you been watching the weather reports?” Why did she even ask the question? It didn't matter. “The hurricane is coming in faster and stronger than expected. We've got to get to the evacuation shelter.”

“Oh, Christina said something about that when she called this morning and said she wouldn't be coming to work. But we've always stayed home before—”

Why hadn't the home care provider insisted the Wrights go to the shelter? Or asked a neighbor to help them? “Mrs. Wright, this hurricane is bad—a Category 3, last I checked—maybe worse.” The salty aroma of bacon wafted from the direction of the kitchen. “Why don't you go wake up Mr. Wright and start getting yourselves dressed? I'll turn off the stove and get some food supplies for both of you. You'll need to pack clothes and whatever medicines you both need—”

“But Mr. Wright doesn't like to be away from home for long—”

“We don't have a choice. I'll help as much as I can. Do you have any sleeping bags or cots or anything?” Vanessa removed her wet Windbreaker and left it in the hall, next to her leather boots.

“We used to camp all the time. There might be some things in the garage . . . I really don't know.”

The smell of burning bacon drifted down the hall. “Don't worry about it. Your only concern is your husband. I'll take care of everything else.”

“I can drive, you know—”

There was no way Mrs. Wright was driving in this torrential downpour. Should the older woman even have a driver's license? “There's no need to take two cars. The roads are jammed with traffic. I'll drive.”

“I guess that's best.” Instead of going upstairs, Mrs. Wright followed Vanessa to the kitchen. “Are you sure we don't have time for breakfast? Mr. Wright is very particular.”

Vanessa eyed the charred bacon in the pan, the two eggs waiting to be cracked into the skillet. “I'll see what I can do. You go on upstairs and get dressed. Then wake up Mr. Wright. I'll be there in just a few.”

After putting the pan of charred bacon on the back burner, she rummaged through the fridge. Most likely the shelter had food supplies, but it would be wise to take some food for the older man's finicky taste buds. She soon had a small selection of containers on the counter: cooked chicken breasts, slices of steak, a baked potato, and some rice. She could only hope Mr. Wright would eat some of the leftovers. Then she grabbed some bread and a few apples and oranges from a basket on the table in the breakfast nook. Foraging through the pantry produced half a dozen cans of Ensure and a handful of straws, as well as a box of graham crackers. She added a dozen water bottles to the pile and, spying a half dozen Hershey bars, threw them in, too. One of the Wrights had a sweet tooth.

Just as she entered the garage, her cell phone buzzed. Of course Ted was smart enough to text instead of trying to call.

Watching the news. Where are you?

She typed a quick reply:
Preparing to head to the evacuation shelter. Safe. More later.

After texting Ted, she took the time to text Mindy about her detour and her decision to go to the shelter with the Wrights. A hurricane, two elderly people, and puppies didn't go together.

She ignored the phone when it buzzed again, tucking it in the back pocket of her jeans. Right now Ted was not her priority—and she didn't have time to argue by text with Mindy. She had to get the Wrights to safety.

A well-kept black Cadillac sedan sat on one side of the two-car garage. Shelves lined one wall—so nicely organized Vanessa could have shouted an “Amen!” She piled two sleeping bags by the garage door, along with two camp chairs.

Upstairs, Mrs. Wright had her husband sitting on the edge of the bed, his wispy white hair in disarray, a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants serving as pajamas.

“He's cranky in the morning.” Mrs. Wright smiled an apology.

“Good morning, Mr. Wright. It's Vanessa.” She leaned in, resting a hand on his shoulder, the bone sharp beneath the cotton material of his shirt. “I'm sorry to wake you up so early, but a hurricane's coming and we need to get to a shelter.”

“Haven't had my breakfast yet.”

“If you get dressed, I'll go downstairs and get that ready for you.”

“Eggs and bacon?”

Vanessa mentally calculated microwave cooking time. “Yes. I can make that happen.”

“I like scrambled eggs.”

“How about you let Mrs. Wright help you get dressed, and I'll see what I can do?”

Vanessa turned to the older woman. “Where's your luggage? You need to pack a suitcase—one for the both of you should be fine.”

“There should be one in the closet—or there's a larger one in the garage.”

“That will work fine.”

While Mrs. Wright cajoled her husband into getting out of bed, Vanessa ran downstairs and put some whisked eggs in the microwave, as well as several slices of bacon. Then she ran back upstairs and ransacked their dresser, tossing basic items into the suitcase she'd found in the garage. Underwear, T-shirts, and socks for Mr. Wright, as well as a few pairs of sweatpants and button-down shirts.

After helping Mrs. Wright walk her husband downstairs and get him comfortable in the recliner in the living room, she stood just inside the kitchen.

“Go back upstairs and get dressed and add what you need to the suitcase. Don't forget your medicines—for both you and Mr. Wright.” Vanessa surveyed the Wrights' mementos. Carnival glass displayed in the dining room hutch. Photos of their daughter's family arrayed on the piano. “If there's anything you want to bring with you—something small—a wedding photo, maybe—pack that, too. And I packed some food. Add a few things to that, especially if there are certain things Mr. Wright will eat.”

“And then what?”

“And then we pack the car and head to the arena at the college.”

“But first—”

But first, what? What had she forgotten? “Yes?”

As the rain pounded on the roof, Mrs. Wright clasped Vanessa's hand in hers. “But first we pray and ask God to protect us. To turn this storm away from us, if that's his will.”

For the first time that morning, Vanessa could take a deep breath. “Let's do that right now. Would you pray, please?”

“Absolutely. I've been praying all this time. I learned a long time ago God doesn't mind if we pray with our eyes wide open.”

Logan's shoulders tensed beneath Vanessa's embrace as he guided the motorcycle up her driveway. Was something wrong? She lifted her head and peeked over his shoulder, her arms still wrapped around his waist, scant inches separating them. A sigh collapsed her shoulders, and she scooted back on the seat.

Caught. She shouldn't be surprised. But she'd expected her mom to be waiting for them one of these afternoons when Logan brought her home—not her father. It was barely four o'clock, and yet for some reason, her father stood on the front porch.

Nothing else to do but deal with the wrath of Dad now—and the wrath of Mom later.

She'd hop off the motorcycle, hand Logan her helmet, grab her backpack, and say goodbye.

But Logan had other plans. He cut the engine, pulled off his helmet, and ran his fingers through his messy hair. “I'd like to meet your dad if it's okay.”

What? Was he crazy?

“Logan, you don't have to—”

“Vanessa, it's okay.” His smile seemed to offer comfort, even as it hinted that he found the whole father-waiting-for-them scenario amusing.

Well, he hadn't met her father before.

Her dad stood there, his gaze hidden behind the brown lenses of his gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. Logan following so close behind her that she could hear his breathing, Vanessa slowed her steps, knowing how this would go. Her father would grill Logan like a military drill sergeant intent on breaking a new recruit. But before her father said a word, Logan moved around her, walked up the steps of the porch, and stuck out his hand.

“Good afternoon, sir. I'm Logan Hollister. Nice to meet you.”

“Logan . . . Hollister, is it?” Not a hint of amusement over the same last name. “I take it you're a friend of my daughter's, although she hasn't mentioned you.”

“Yes, sir. Vanessa and I are both seniors. We have some of the same classes together.” Logan tapped his helmet against his thigh. “I hope it's okay that I've been bringing Vanessa home from school.”

“Little late to be asking that, isn't it?”

Vanessa chewed her bottom lip, refusing to look at Logan or her father.

“You're right, sir. I apologize.” Logan kept his eyes trained on Vanessa's father, accepting all the guilt for Vanessa's rebellious oversight. “I do hope I can continue to give Vanessa a ride home from school.”

“Is that all you want to do with my daughter?”

Heat flushed Vanessa's face as she hissed a breath through her teeth. Why, why, why did her dad have to ask that? Logan and she were friends. And now, thanks to her father, he'd never speak to her again. Never offer her a ride home from school again. Not that her dad would allow it, anyway.

Logan choked back a cough. “To be honest, sir, I'd like to date your daughter.”

Vanessa forced herself to stand still, staring at the potted plant her mother had hung in the corner of the porch, its long green vines trailing over the sides of the planter.

“I see.” Her father seemed to notice her for the first time. “Vanessa, why don't you go get this young man some iced tea. I'll take a glass, too. We'll sit out here and talk.”

“Sure thing, Dad. But I think Logan has to get to work soon.”

“Is that true, Logan? Don't want to make you late.”

“I've got about half an hour, sir.”

“Fine.” Her father settled into one of the Jefferson woven-back rocking chairs, motioning for Logan to sit beside him. “This won't take long. Vanessa? Weren't you going to get the drinks?”

“Yessir.”

Vanessa slipped inside the house, aware that her father had begun questioning Logan about school and work—even what he hoped to do after graduation. As she shut the door to keep the heat outside, Logan looked up from where he sat in the other rocking chair and gave her a quick wink when her dad wasn't looking.

•  •  •

Seeing Vanessa at the top of the stairs made running the virtual gauntlet with her parents—her father a few days ago and her mother tonight—all worth it. She wore a pair of jeans that hugged her long legs and a sleeveless cotton top the soft yellow color of sea oats. Her brown hair, illuminated with blond highlights, skimmed her shoulders, pulled off her forehead with a barrette. When she offered him a smile, he couldn't help but wonder if Vanessa Hollister believed in kissing a guy good night on the first date.