I Like You a Latte {Completed}

45 | Driving the Distance

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."