And now it was his father’s turn to make the next move. Hopefully, Noah hadn't exposed the wrong pieces.
10
Two days later, Ziggy glanced over her coffee mug. Cormac’s truck was parked in the street, and she could see his cowboy hat resting on his head. Setting down her coffee, she marched toward the front door of Noah’s house. She swung it open and was halfway down the porch steps when he opened his truck door.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Yeah. I can’t stand seeing you sit out here a second longer. You can either come inside and get some real food, because those sugary breakfast bars you’re eating aren’t good for you, or I’m bringing the kitchen to your pick-up.”
Cormac smiled. The man actually smiled. “I guess I can come in for a refill of some coffee and one of those muffins Noah is always bragging about.”
“Not as good as what comes from Crystal’s bakery, but they aren’t bad, if I do say so myself.”
Cormac jumped in front of her and opened the door. “Smells like my mother’s kitchen in here.”
“I hope you like blueberries.”
“I sure do.” He took the muffin and the mug and strolled into the family room with his back to the wall and his gaze on the water. He didn’t move, except to take a nibble or a sip.
It was a start.
She broke off a piece of her muffin and turned the page on the segment outline. The Port commission piece needed a tighter cold open. She'd circled that note twice already. Down the hall, Noah's voice carried from his home office. It was low, and she couldn’t make out the words, but she could hear the timbre, and it told her that whoever he was talking to, or trying to reach, it was important.
And for some reason, that made her nervous.
She glanced up. The only thing Cormac had done in the last few minutes was set down his plate with a half-eaten muffin on it. "You know there's a couch," she called toward the family room.
"I see it," Cormac said.
“You’re allowed to use it.”
“Okay.”
"Noah picked it out himself," she said. “Which means it’s really comfortable because he’s the pickiest man I’ve ever met.” Not that anyone in her family, except maybe her and her mom, was all that particular about furniture, but still.
"I'm good where I am."
She shook her head. “You’re a tough one.”
“That’s what my mom says about both my dad and me.” Cormac glanced over his shoulder. “I take it as a compliment.”
“I’m sure you do.” And it wasn’t a dig, it was just… well, he wasn’t much different than Troy or Jag when they got in this mode. She turned back to her notes and told herself to focus on work and not the sudden silence from down the hall.
Two minutes later, Noah came around the corner. More like stomped and shuffled his feet at the same time. He carelesslytossed his phone on the counter, and it slid toward the center, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He reached for a mug, shoved it under the coffee maker, hit the button, and tapped his fingers on the counter.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He turned, both hands cupping the mug. Ever since his visit with his father, he’d been in a mood. She wasn’t shocked by that. But it had surprised her that he hadn’t pushed her away. He didn’t draw her in, but he hadn’t told her to leave his bed, leave his house, or break up with her.
She took that as progress.
“I can't get a hold of Monica," he said. “I’ve texted. I’ve called. I’ve left messages. Nothing, and I’m genuinely worried about her.”
Cormac appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I’m sorry if this is too personal a question, but how long did the two of you date?”
“Just a couple of months,” Noah said. “It wasn’t some big romance. It was barely a thing. But she’s a nice person, and no one deserves to be…” Noah let out a long breath.
"Did Jag confirm a police report? A date for when she was beaten? A hospital visit?” Cormac asked.