smile. “You always got tea when you were nervous. Chamomile. Two sugars. You pretended it was for the taste.”
My throat tightened. I stared down at my hands—working hands that had scrubbed floors, folded laundry, signed timecards, held my husband’s hand as he faded, held my son when he had nightmares. Nobody in the Hargrove world would’ve framed them continue reading …
