The Bottom Line by Sandy James

her breast against his palm.
    Padding.
His hand had found padding, not the natural texture or softness of a woman’s breast. Nor had she reacted the way other women had. There was no recognition of his touch. No murmur. No reaction. Except anger.
    Ben was sure he felt padding.
    No, not just padding.
    A fake breast.
    “Oh my God.”
    He remembered her saying that her husband had experienced nothing but “poorer and sicker” in their marriage. And in his mind’s eye, Ben clearly saw that pink ribbon magnet on the back of her SUV.
    That ribbon wasn’t just for her mother.
    It was for her.
    An angry roar built in his chest, but he smothered it, unsure of where he should direct that rage.
    Mallory?
    For what? For having the temerity to win his affection after his repeated promises of keeping women at arm’s length? Or for so easily stealing his caring only to have the audacity to threaten to take it away just as quickly by having cancer?
    No, his anger was directed inward. He was stupid on so many levels he let out a scoffing laugh.
    You fucking idiot.
    He’d let her in. Without an ounce of self-protection, he’d let her crawl right inside his mind. If that wasn’t stupid, he didn’t know what was. After all his promises, all the oaths he’d made to himself about keeping his life and Amber’s uncomplicated, he’d dived right back into the deep end.
    Ben hopped back in his truck, sitting behind the wheel for a good, long while, mentally kicking himself in the ass. Repeatedly.
    He was blind, too. Stupid and blind to ignore all the clues Mallory had dropped along the way.
    He’d dismissed her thinness as an emotional response to the divorce. Some people, especially women, were comfort eaters, but there were also those who wouldn’t eat at all when stressed out.
    Sure her hair was short, but not short enough to scream
chemotherapy
.
    Yet his own stupidity became obvious whenever he thought back to her reaction when he first entered her bathroom to give her the estimate on fixing her home. The stuff he saw had made a deep blush rise on her cheeks, and she’d rapidly scooped it all into a drawer. He struggled to remember as many items as he could.
    Prescription bottles. Tubes of antibiotic ointment and scar-lessening cream. And a falsie, a fake breast, probably the same one his fingertips had brushed when he’d tried to deepen their intimacy. He’d been ignorant enough to believe she just wanted to look like she had bigger boobs.
    After smacking his forehead against the steering wheel a couple of times, Ben turned the key and brought the engine to life. He broke every speed limit getting back to the church. He was tired of feeling stupid, and Mallory’s friend would surely have the answers he so desperately needed.
    He marched inside and quickly spotted her leaning against the wall, chatting with Robert.
    Did he know too?
    Was Ben the only one in the dark about Mallory’s breast cancer?
    The redhead—what was her name?—caught him stomping across the floor, head down, like a bull that had seen a red cape. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fixed into a harsh frown.
    She spoke before he could think of how to ask the questions pounding through his brain. “I thought you two headed home.” Leaning to the side, she looked past him. “Where’s Mallory? Did she go to the restroom or something?”
    “She’s at home.”
    “Home?”
    “Yeah, home.”
    She stared at him for a few long moments then her eyebrows gathered in irritation. “What in the hell did you do to her?”
    The accusation stung, probably because he felt guilty, as though he’d crossed some invisible line or invaded Mallory’s privacy. “I… um… We…” He was more flustered than he’d ever been where a woman was concerned. Which meant—
    Mallory was already important to him. Much more important than he’d realized. “She has cancer, doesn’t she?” It hurt to say the words aloud. “Breast cancer. Right?”
    “I can’t talk to you about