One side of his lips kicked up.

I wanted to say more and I was so going to cry more, and it was a good thing that his phone started ringing, because I was seconds away from telling him that I loved him and wanted to have his babies. Not have his babies right now, but later, and I figured that might’ve been too soon to say something like that, but oh God, I did love him.

Jax ignored his phone as he rolled me onto my back. “I think you get it.” Leaning onto one arm pressed into the pillow, he brushed away the tears with his other hand. “Finally.”

A little kernel of “getting it” was there, and it was small and fragile, but it was there, pitted in my stomach like a little seed that just started to sprout. It needed love and care, but I was starting to get it.

He grinned and said, “Yeah.” Then he dipped his head, kissing my left cheek just as his phone started ringing again. He pulled back, shooting a glare in the direction of the nightstand.

“You should get that.” My voice was thick.

Jax really didn’t look like he wanted to, but with a curse, he shifted off me and snatched his phone. He answered the call with a “What?”

I’d just settled back against the pillow, about to replay his whole speech over again in a slightly obsessive way, when Jax suddenly sat up. “What?”

The tone of his voice caused a rush of unease, and I reacted to it. Sitting up, I grabbed the sheet and tugged it to my breasts.

“Yeah, I’m Jackson James. What’s going on?” There was a stretch of silence and then he was on his feet, and I was staring at his firm ass. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his jaw hard. “Yes. Thank you. Yep.”

“What’s going on?” I asked as soon as he lowered the phone.

Jax grabbed his jeans and briefs off the floor. “You got to get up and get dressed, honey.”

The tone of his voice brooked no room for argument and I knew something was up, and I did what I was told. I tossed the covers and stood. Jax already had his jeans on when he was suddenly in front of me.

The air left me when I saw the look in his eyes. Oh no. My heart kicked up. “It’s Mom, isn’t it? They’ve found her bo—”

“No, honey, it’s not your mom.” He cupped my cheeks, his eyes searching mine. “It’s Clyde. And it’s serious. He had a heart attack.”

One of the reasons why I wanted to be a nurse was that I hated hospitals. They were a cesspool of unwelcome memories of grief, pain, and desperation, and in a way, becoming a nurse was a way to overcome that hate and that fear. But for even more obvious reasons, I wasn’t thinking of my future career and I hated them more so today than I had in a long time, because I was on the verge of having another horrific memory attached to a hospital.