Rory: Hope City, Book 7 by Maryann Jordan (uplifting books for women txt) 📕

inside safely.” If he expected her to argue, she didn’t, merely offering a shrug. For some reason he didn’t want to ponder, her indifference gnawed at him. Parallel parking, he glanced toward her building, surprise hitting him once again. He hustled out, and by the time he made it around to her side, she’d opened the passenger door. He assisted her to the ground, and considering he could still feel her body shaking, kept his arm around her shoulders as they moved to the front door.

So many neighborhoods in Hope City were multi-storied townhouses, but he still had trouble hiding his surprise. Hers was only two stories, right on the street level and on the corner. He glanced down, seeing her hand shaking as she attempted to insert the key into the lock. Gently taking it from her, he twisted it and the door swung open. She stepped through, flipped the switch to turn on the lights, and since she didn’t immediately dismiss him, he followed her into the living room. There, the surprises kept coming.

Instead of expensive, luxurious, plush furniture or trendy, modern furniture that would have been just as expensive and yet made a visitor feel as though they shouldn’t sit on anything, he entered a quaint space, filled with furniture that appeared comfortable and inviting. The coffee table and end tables were wood and appeared old but not antique. The lamps emitting the soft illumination were mismatched and yet seemed to blend perfectly. A large, circular rug in the middle of the wooden floor reminded him of one his grandmother used to have in her house. A long, narrow table that had seen better days sat next to the brick wall, a widescreen TV perched on it. He was surprised that the TV was much smaller than the one he had in his place.

She dropped her keys and purse onto the coffee table and turned, her face still pale in the lamplight. Before he had a chance to speak, a loud meow squawked, and his gaze jerked down. A scrawny orange cat wandered into the room, making its way directly to Sandy. Its tail was stubby, part of its ear was missing, and it walked with a pronounced limp.

He blinked at the creature, but she dropped to a squat, her hand darting out to rub its fur. “Hey, Ocee, how are you? Did you miss Mommy?”

He couldn’t imagine that cat was hers. If he’d thought of her with a pet, it would be a tiny Yorkiepoo or some other such designer combination of dog. Something she could have put an outfit on, stuffed into an expensive carrier that looked like a purse, and gone out for a walk, one where she walked and the dog sat in the bag. But as he stared, the cat rubbed along her shins, its purr louder than its meow had been.

Her voice was soft as she continued to coo, and her face transformed as the tension eased. For the first time that evening, a glimpse of her appeared—the Sandy he remembered when he’d first met her. A smile spread across her face and lit up the room.

“What’s your cat’s name?” he asked. He desired to keep the smile on her face and the obvious affection she had for the scraggly animal seemed to be the way to go about it.

“Ocee. At the vet, I spell it o-c-e-e but it’s really for the initials O and C—orange cat. I got him at the shelter, and they’d only called him orange cat. He’d been hit by a car and left for dead. No one wanted to adopt him, but as soon as I saw him, I knew he was the one. On the cage, they had his initials, and when I called him Ocee, he immediately came over and rubbed against my fingers.”

“The shelter?” As hard as it was for him to think of her volunteering there, it was equally hard for him to imagine her getting a pet from the shelter.

She hefted her shoulders in a small shrug. “It’s the shelter I was at the other day. I used to volunteer more, but as I got busier at work, it’s been harder.” She continued rubbing the cat’s head for another moment. As she stood, she leaned forward and rested one hand on the coffee table. Lifting a leg, she slid off first one stiletto heel and then the other. Groaning slightly as she wiggled her toes, she stood and looked up at him.

“Thank you for seeing me home,” she said, her voice soft as she brought her hands forward and clasped them in front of her. “It was an unexpected evening, but I’m fine now.”

“What happened, Sandy?”

Giving her head a quick shake, she repeated, “It was just unexpected. I was very concerned for her, but like I said, I’m fine now.”

She continued to hold her hands together, and he noticed her knuckles were white with a tight grip. “They said you thought to have Maeve get the woman’s glass.”

“Anyone would have done the same.”

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, weighing his words. “I know it was upsetting to see the woman like that, but your reaction was… well, it appeared devastating.” He stepped closer but stopped, seeing her take a step back. Continuing, he said, “It just illuminates how careful we all need to be. You should always be very aware of your drink—”

“I assure you, I know how to protect myself. I don’t need a lecture.”

He heard the quiver in her voice but was uncertain if its origin was fear or anger. He hated the first for her but the second could easily be directed toward him as well as the faceless man out there who roofied the woman. “I’m not trying to lecture you, Sandy. I do care and just thought that as upset as you were, you might want to talk. Obviously, this incident has really hit you.”

She shook her head and snorted indelicately. “Oh, you