He turned the truck onto a quiet, tree-lined street in a modest neighborhood.

The snow was piled high on the sidewalks, shoveled into neat mounds in front of small brick bungalows.

“We’re going to my house first,” Thomas said. “We’ll get you and the baby settled, and then I’ll head back to the airport to pick up Laura.”

“What about Ryan?” I asked. “He knows where you live.”

“He knows,” Thomas said. “But he won’t come here. He’s too afraid of what I might say to him.”

He pulled into a short concrete driveway next to a small, neat house with green shutters.

The engine died, and the sudden silence in the truck was heavy.

Thomas got out, walked around to my side, and opened the passenger door.

He offered me his arm, his grip steady and solid as I carefully slid out of the seat.

My abdomen throbbed with a sharp, burning pain, a reminder of the emergency surgery just days ago.

I held my breath, leaning against Thomas until the dizziness passed.

“Easy now,” he murmured, supporting my weight. “Take your time.”