Norman pressed his foot to the gas, his expression cooling just a little.
“Yeah, Mitch knows. Big brother asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t pull anything stupid. In a month, Dylan’s heading to North America, and you’re going back too. So just keep your head down for the next month, okay? No trouble.”
“Got it.”
Charles hung up, and a few minutes later, rolled up to Palm Bay.
Clara was already at the front door of the main house, unlocking it with her fingerprint. She slipped off her shoes at the entry, moving with practiced ease—just as Dylan came down the stairs.
He was dressed in a dark suit. When he saw her, he paused for a second or two, then dropped his gaze and headed for the couch.
Clara had just been through a brush with death, but she still looked as calm as ever.
After changing her shoes, she walked over to him. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask—how’s your leg? You haven’t used the wheelchair in days. Does it still hurt?”
“It’s fine.”
His voice was quiet and even. He looked at her, saw that she was drenched, and automatically reached for a tissue, as if to help dry her off.
But honestly, she was soaked through.
Clara glanced back at the wet footprints she’d left. “I’m gonna go upstairs and change. Have you had breakfast yet? If not, I’ll come down and make you something.”
She zipped up the stairs, quick as a bird coming home.
Dylan held onto the tissues for a moment, watching her go, then slowly put them aside.
Upstairs, Clara had plenty of clothes—she hadn’t had a chance to come back since Dylan woke up, so nothing had been thrown away.
She changed fast and came back down. Dylan was still on the couch.
The house staff spotted her and looked a little uneasy. “Ma’am…”
Clara could guess what they were thinking—that she and Dylan had fought.
“Ma’am, did you and the mister—?”
Neither of them had been home for days.
She took a breath, forcing a smile. “No, it’s nothing like that. Go on with your work. I’ll handle his meals from now on.”
“Of course. If you need anything, just let us know.”
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