When Francis pulled his SUV to a stop in front of a quant, one-story home, he threw the vehicle in park before shifting in his seat to eye Beverly carefully. "As far as I know, he's still on bed rest, so should be inside. How are you feeling?" he knew as well as she did that sitting in a car for two hours wasn't good for a stomach injury, but Beverly didn't want to be a burden, so she refrained from telling him that her side was burning something fierce.

Ugh, I can't believe I forgot to bring my medicine with me.

"Yeah," she hoped her smile looked genuine. "I'm good. Thanks for doing this for me, Francis."

"No worries, Beverly." He climbed out of the car and traipsed over to her side, opening her own door and helping her down before leading her up to the front porch of the home.

The house itself looked a bit old and rundown, but the furniture on the porch—a porch swing on one side and two stylishly decorated rockers on the other—spoke of someone with good taste and a decent salary.

Beverly leaned back against the wall next to the entrance as Francis knocked on the deep red door. There was silence, and Francis knocked again before a voice came through: "Sorry, I'm coming!"

The pain in Beverly's stomach was forgotten when the door was swung open, revealing Quincy, balanced on one crutch with his healing leg wrapped in bandages and hovering several inches off the ground. His expression shifted from one of polite curiosity to shock, quickly followed by immense relief. "Beverly!" he cried, his smile wide. "What a sight for sore eyes you are."

Shoulders dropping in relief that he didn't mind their sudden arrival, Beverly stepped forward, wrapping the older man in a gentle hug before pulling back and shooting him a wide grin. "I could say the same for you. Staying out of trouble?"

He barked a laugh, gesturing them inside and leading them to a small living room. "With my wife hovering over me constantly? I'm forced to. How are you, Mr. Knott?" he held his hand out to Francis, and the two shook.

"Francis, please," the CEO said, "and I dare say I'm doing a bit better than the both of you—at least I have uninhibited function of all my body parts."

Beverly rolled her eyes at his teasing, sinking into the plush white couch happily and stretching her legs out onto the matching ottoman. "You can't make fun of injured people," she scolded jokingly. "It's terribly insensitive."

Settling down next to her, Francis reached over and patted her shin the way a condescending adult would to a foolish child; she stuck her tongue out in response.

Quincy chuckled at their antics, sitting across from them in a navy La-Z-Boy and popping the foot of his injured leg up on a stack of pillows that had been arranged on the coffee table. "Not that I don't mind seeing you both, but may I ask why you're here?" his gaze turned hard. "You're not in any more trouble, are you, Beverly?"

"Oh, no," Beverly laughed. "Thanks to you, I'm just fine. I really am sorry for the intrusion, but I wanted to come and personally thank you for all you did for me that day—you saved my life."

Quincy waved her off, though not unkindly. "And I would do it again. As a police officer and a law-abiding citizen, I would never ignore someone in need, Beverly. In fact, I'm happy I was there."

I am too, Beverly thought immediately. There was no telling, after all, what would have happened to her had Quincy not been present.

"I am, as well," Francis admitted, his eyes darting between Beverly and Quincy. "Thank you, Quincy, for helping her. I know we spoke at the hospital, but I hope you understand just how much Beverly means to both myself and others; we are forever grateful."

Nodding, Quincy smirked. "I had a feeling, Francis—the boyfriend made that very clear."

Beverly's mouth dropped open. "You met Griffin?" She'd known that, when she and Quincy had been brought to the hospital, Francis and the cop had spoken, but she wasn't aware that the police officer knew about her relationship with Griffin.

"'Course," he grunted. "The boy showed up and nearly killed Dennis. Took three deputies to get him off, though they weren't trying too hard." He smirked smugly, and she rolled her eyes with some amusement. "When we spoke later, he told me he would never be able to thank me enough for saving the woman he loved."

Holy shit. 'Love'? Damn.

Beverly fully intended to dissect that particular tidbit later, but she knew it would have to wait. "A bit awkward," Quincy continued, eyeing the popcorn ceiling thoughtfully. "Almost like he'd had a bad experience with police in the past, but he seemed like a decent kid. Tall as Hell, too."

"Very tall," Francis agreed instantly. "And you're right that he's a good kid—smart, too."

"He must be, if he's managed to snag Beverly; she's a tough one." Quincy's playful words had Beverly trying in vain to sink into the couch and disappear. She hadn't gotten to witness Quincy's relaxed side during their last encounter, and she was beginning to regret bringing Francis along with her—she should've known that putting Francis in a room with another man would see them acting like annoying relatives.

Just as she opened her mouth to change the subject, a new voice interrupted. "Quin, leave the poor girl alone—she's had a rough go as it is, without you making it worse." The words were said almost teasingly, and Beverly twisted her head around to find a woman around Quincy's age standing in the small kitchen that sat across from the living room. She held a sort of subtle beauty—the kind that was often overlooked.

Dark, tightly twisted curls framed her round face, and she was dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit with a matching pair of shoes; she would've been intimidating, if not for the kindness sparkling in her chocolate eyes. "Hello, Beverly—it's nice to meet you. I'm Corrine, Quincy's long-suffering wife."

"'Long-suffering'?" Quincy echoed, passing Beverly an amused, Like that's even slightly true look. "I'd say that's the other way around."

Snickering at their banter, Beverly waved at the woman. "It's nice to meet you, too. I'd get up and shake your hand, but I'm honestly too tired to do that."

Corrine laughed brightly, gliding into the living room and settling down on the large ottoman by Beverly's feet. "I like you," she declared, crossing one leg over the other and eyeing Beverly as though the girl was a celebrity. "I got the story from Quincy, but I want to hear it from you—what exactly happened?"

Exchanging a loaded glance with Francis, Beverly turned back to the woman and shrugged. "It's kind of long."

"I have time," Corrine replied immediately. "I'll even force Quincy to make his famous cheese bread, if it'll keep you here longer. He can sit at the table and do it without hurting his leg."

Another look at Francis showed the man nodding encouragingly, and Beverly grinned. "For food? You've got a deal."

***

They left Quincy and Corrine a couple hours later, with a round of hugs and a promise to visit soon. The couple watched from the porch as Francis and Beverly loaded into the SUV, and Beverly shot them one more wave as they drove off.

"Thank you," she told Francis softly, watching as the little house disappeared in the passenger side mirror. "I'm glad I got to see them."

"It's no problem, Beverly," Francis replied earnestly. "I'm glad you were feeling up to it. You're welcome to sleep for a while—traffic might slow us down a bit, but we're not in a rush."

Stifling a yawn, Beverly nodded, already curling into herself. She hadn't been this active since the day she'd gotten shot, and it was taking a toll on her. Just as she was about to drift into unconsciousness, the ringing of Francis's phone blared through the otherwise silent vehicle, startling Beverly and causing her to snap upright, hissing when her side flared.

Francis groaned. "Sorry, Beverly." He fumbled for his phone, taking a quick glance at the caller ID before a hopeful look passed over his features; pressing the device to his ear, he asked, "Cynthia?"

The explosion of noise on the other end of the line told Beverly that the caller was not, in fact, Cynthia—the grimace on Francis's face confirmed the hunch. "Yes," Francis sighed, snapping Beverly from her thoughts. "She's with me." He shot Beverly a sideways scolding look, and she paled, the realization of exactly who was on the other end of the line slamming into her with the force of a bullet (she would know, too).

Ah, crap, she thought, realizing with an inward groan that she'd totally forgotten to leave Griffin and Cynthia a note about her whereabouts; a look down at her phone showed the device was dead, and stream of curses flashed through her head. God, that must've been Griffin on the other end of the line, and she had no doubt that he was irritated and panicked all at once.

"Have you taken your medicine?" Francis asked, and she wished more than anything that the car would swallow her whole. Griffin, for such an intimidating giant, was quite a nursemaid, and never forgot her medication. She didn't answer, but she didn't need to, since Francis replied with a tired, "Judging by the expression on her face, that's a 'no.'"

She'd grown used to the stinging in her side, but she should've known that the guilty look on her face would give her away. Now she was sure to have Griffin, Francis, Cynthia, and possibly even Alicia (should the girl find out) on her case.

She snapped out of her thoughts when the words, "I understand," came from Francis, the look on his face conveying a sort of resigned understanding. "I'll let you. We're on our way—should be there in an hour and forty-five."

A harsh growl came through the phone, and Francis rolled his eyes. "I don't control traffic, Griffin." The growling only grew worse, and Francis swallowed thickly, appearing—for the first time Beverly could remember—anxious. "I promise. See you so—" he pulled the phone from his ear and blew out a breath. "He hung up."

Tossing the phone into the center console, he asked, "Do I need to get you a tracker, so he stops worrying so much?" The words were said teasingly, but she didn't miss the tension in his tone.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized immediately. "I guess I'm not used to having people worry about what I do during the day, you know? Living in a dorm with Deb meant I never had to answer to anyone, not really. I'll remember next time. He's not mad at you, is he?"

They both knew the answer to that question, but Francis replied anyway. "I'd say 'mad' is a bit of an understatement. He's still pissed about the way I treated Cynthia, I think, and it doesn't help that he blames me for letting you go back to school that day. I haven't been avoiding him for no reason, after all."

Beverly's brows rose in surprise, not because of his words, but the tinge of fear laced in them. "Are you . . . scared? Of Griffin?" She'd known the older man had been nervous, but she never would've guessed he was outright fearful of her boyfriend.

Francis tried to chuckle, but the sound was choked, and the way his knuckles clenched around the steering wheel told Beverly exactly how right she was. "Your boyfriend has had it out for me for a long time, Beverly," he said. "As much as he cares about Cynthia, his love for you is something I don't think anyone will question."

Her heart sped up at the use of that word again. Love. She and Griffin would need to have a long conversation later, that much was clear.

"Right," she agreed, nodding slowly, "but surely he realizes that you're not to blame for my decisions. I mean, I'm the one who insisted on going back to campus, and then basically insisting that Deb and Griffin leave me behind. You didn't do anything wrong; in fact, you were a huge help."

"Griffin doesn't see it that way. I spoke with your friend Alicia once, while you were still unconscious at the hospital, and I asked her if I could come and see you. She said that, if I didn't want to get killed, I would wait until you were awake and on the mend."

"What?" Beverly gasped. Alicia had never told her about such an encounter. "Why would she say that?"

"Well," Francis's smile was a bit more genuine this time around, "she was only ensuring my safety, I suppose. Griffin's temper was a bit . . . out of control, you might say. Alicia asked him if I could come by, and he said, 'Not if he doesn't want me to beat him up and then dump his body in the lake, he won't.' Needless to say, I didn't come by."

Beverly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course he said that. You know he wouldn't actually do that, right?"

Or, at least, she didn't think he would.

Francis seemed to share in her thoughts, if his muttering of, "I wouldn't count on that," was any indication. "Ah, well," he spared her a quick, reassuring smile. "Don't worry too much, Beverly. It warms an uncle's heart to know his dearest niece is being taken care of properly, even if that means Griffin strangles me."

"Well, I'd rather he didn't strangle you, thanks very much." Beverly snorted. "Are we going back to your office?"

His eyes widened comically. "After the call I just received? I think not. No, we're going straight to Cynthia's house."

"Great," Beverly groaned dramatically, crossing her arms over her chest, "we'll both be killed. Griffin will take you, and Cynthia will probably strangle me to death in a 'where the heck were you' hug of some kind."

Francis managed a good-natured chuckle. "Either that or drown you in her cooking, yes."

Curling back in on herself, Beverly mumbled, "Wake me when we arrive at our doom."

A snigger from Francis, followed by the words, "Alright, Beverly."