“Good.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a small envelope.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“Open it later.”
“Eleanor—”
“No arguments.”
I looked at Tristan.
He was standing near the doorway, watching the exchange.
“She does this,” he said.
“Does what?”
“Decides something and then makes everyone accept it.”
Eleanor smiled proudly.
“Because I’m usually right.”
I had to admit, she had a point.
After helping Eleanor into the car, I returned to the hospital entrance.
Tristan was still there.
For a moment, we stood beneath the gray Manhattan sky.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For taking care of my mother.”
I shook my head.
“It’s my job.”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“It’s more than that.”
I looked at him.
“You’re good at what you do.”
The compliment shouldn’t have affected me as much as it did.
But it did.
“Thank you.”
