by A. L. Woods
My voice was a whisper over the clang of plates being cleared from a nearby table. “You’re shouldering the blame for something you didn’t do, Raquel. If you don’t forgive yourself, you’re going to carry the guilt of what happened with you forever.”
Brief cognizance flickered in her face, but it was gone before it could even fully register, like a candle wick that wouldn’t catch a flame. “I wasn’t there to protect her from herself. I didn’t intervene when I learned who she was hanging out with…” She squeezed her lids together, unable to finish the sentence. “I wasn’t there when I knew what the consequences of leaving her in my mother’s care meant. I don’t even know for sure whose baby she was having.” She slammed a fist into her chest as though to drive the message home, her facial expression grim. “That is my fault.” Her impassioned speech would have brooked no argument with any other person, but I wasn’t any other person.
“Can I ask you something?” I hedged, my mouth slipping into a frown. Her puzzled eyes ran over me, lips taut with tension, and I plunged ahead. “Do you think your mother blames herself?”
A fracture of a laugh came out of her, followed by another head shake. “That would require my mother to have a conscience.”
“So why is this your responsibility?”
“You don’t get it,” she huffed, pulling her hand away from me. I held on, refusing to let her go. Crazed bewilderment erupted on her face, her concentration fixed on where I kept her small hand trapped in my own.
She wasn’t going to punish herself on my watch for something she didn’t do, something she couldn’t control.
This was another lesson she was going to learn.
“I get it perfectly. You’re making yourself accountable for parenting your kid sister when you were a kid yourself. You’re punishing yourself for what happened to her when you could have never prevented it, unless you now want to confess to moonlighting as a clairvoyant and taking that night off.”
“You don’t need to be—”
“Condescending? A smug prick? An asshole? Yeah, I do, because you won’t listen otherwise. You’re sitting here being angry and self-deprecating for something that was entirely out of your control. Something you could have never prevented.”
She blanched at that, her head snapping back, nostrils flaring, telling me I’d struck a chord that reverberated within her. “Yeah, sure, okay—let’s hypothesize that you were more involved in monitoring your sister’s life, maybe you deferred college for a year…but do you know what that would have looked like long-term, Hemingway? You guys would have fucking hated each other because you put so much energy into trying to save her from herself.” I saw a shift in her equilibrium, sensed my statements were planting consideration in places where guilt had always bloomed. The instability that had previously been present had slipped into the void of the night, dissipating in darkened eddies around her until there was nothing. A flush of calmness was taking residence in her disposition, her eyes returning to their honeyed color as she digested what I had said. Her tongue peeked out to outline her bottom lip as she prepared her next question.
“Do you know this from experience?” she murmured, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes under long lashes.
I never wanted to see her cry again. I knew that request was unrealistic, it was a declaration of intent at best—but something told me she had spent most of her life crying, and at most…I never wanted to be the reason for her to shed another tear.
“I already told you.” My thumb scraped against the fine lines in her upturned palm. “I’ve got three sisters.” I gave her a sideways smile, tossing my chin at her. “You’d better start eating that waffle. Rhonda looks like she’s one order up away from a nervous breakdown.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
This had not been part of the plan. I had come in here with the intention of being as normal as humanly possible, but then I overheard a patron at a table talking to someone on the phone about their Thanksgiving plans through a mouthful of food and I just…I struggled to keep it together. I felt that restrained hesitation filling my body with each minute that passed. I had hoped that by sticking to coffee, the night would be over sooner.
Sean was never going to let that one slide, though.
I yo-yoed with my desire to be as close to him as physically possible, hip to hip, flesh against flesh. Yet, I was simultaneously overwhelmed by the fear that urged me to deign to its commands and keep as far away from him as our zip codes would permit.
I thought I’d get away with tucking myself against the banquette until he tired of my antics and silent routine.
He had read me like a book, and I surprised myself by wanting to talk about it. About Cash. About Dad. About Holly Jane. About her pregnancy.
I had supervised every single expression he made as I recounted my story to him over a waffle that had sat untouched for some time. I held my breath, waiting for the moment where something would finally register within him that I wasn’t worth the effort. That pursuing this thing with me would be an epic mistake. That there was too much risk and not enough to gain.
But he just held onto my hand like he never had any intention of letting me go, and that made dropping my walls just a little easier. One by one, my internal bricklayers removed another layer into a crumbling pile by my feet, exposing more of me to him in a way that made me feel vulnerable enough to want to throw my hands over my chest and protect my exposed heart.
Because being around Sean made everything easier, and if I allowed myself…
I might fall.
“That is way too much syrup,” Sean chuckled, invading my reverie. His eyes were trained on the dispenser in my hand and the free flow of syrup that flowed from the tilted end.
“There are no rules to breakfast foods.”
“You’re an expert now?” He snorted, shaking his head at me. “Your teeth are going to hurt.”
“Good,” I chirped, setting the dispenser down and arming myself with my fork. “I’ll make my dentist work for his paycheck this time.”
We had fallen into a steady flow of conversation after Rhonda had appeared with the pancakes and French toast shortly after depositing the waffles, a vein in her forehead straining as though she had been waiting for the most opportune moment to reappear at our table. I felt a shadow of doubt hovering over me, worry nipping at my heels that I had said too much, had volunteered prematurely and given him information that went beyond the scope of first date territory.
Oh, who the fuck was I kidding? His tongue had been three inches deep in my vagina less than forty-eight hours ago. We were probably past the point of no return. The scope of rules surrounding a first date did not apply to us.
We had never fit inside the conventional confines of norms.
Still, this was now the second time I had unloaded on him in a public place. At least I was sober for this one; the first time had just been at the behest of Samuel Adams and Jack Daniels.
“So,” I began, cutting off the edge of the French toast, deciding this really was the better of the three options currently on the table…not that I would ever confess that to him. “Now that you gotten my life story, let’s hear yours.”
Sean’s demeanor turned serious as his jaw worked at the forkful of French toast I had saturated. “That wasn’t your life story, Hemingway. That was just a few chapters.”
My expression softened, his eyes boring into mine as though rewriting the synapses and schematic responses in my brain. I didn’t feel overwhelmed by his focus. Perhaps, if anything, I wanted to reveal parts of myself to him that I hadn’t shown to anyone before.
The feeling should have left me unsettled, but the longer I sat there waiting for that chasm to crack the stable ground I stood upon, the more evident it became that the ground would not combust into fissures.
That I would be able to remain upright and unscathed.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, rearranging the plates on the table, consolidating them when he could
, just as Rhonda reappeared to deposit a skillet laden with a mountain of home fries, grilled peppers and onions, and a poached egg. She set it next to a bowl of granola, yogurt with fresh fruit she had brought a few minutes ago and took the cleared plates with her when she left.
“Everything.”
“Bold statement, Hemingway.” His laugh softening the edges of my stupid heart from whatever residual anxiety still lingered there. “You gave me the Cole’s Notes version of your chapter, and you want my life story?”
“I’m a columnist,” I said, giving him a perfunctory look. “It’s in my nature.”
“I’ll bet you use that line on all the boys.” He snorted.
“Nah, just the ones I like.”
“So you admit it, then.” His lips fell into a lopsided grin, a carnal look heating his eyes. “You like me.”
That tingle I’d had earlier in his Jeep returned, settling itself between my legs, my core tightening. “I plead the fifth,” I croaked out, not even convincing myself that I believed my own bullshit. I had already admitted I liked him under the slow, tantalizing assault of his fingers and mouth yesterday—I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing it again.
“I could get you to talk.” Sean’s stare fell to where I had folded the corners of my napkin like a nervous tick. “And give you something else to do with your hands.”
Why did he have to be so easy on the eyes? Why did every sweep of his gaze feel sensual? I crumpled the napkin and laid it next to my plate. My throat could barely coax the lump that had forged along my trachea. I shook my head briskly, disentangling the salacious thoughts he had filled my head with. “You’re deflecting,” I pointed out, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Is it working?”
“Absolutely not.”
I didn’t like the confidence he radiated as his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes slanting with interest that set off every alarm system in my brain, telling me I was approaching full-on nuclear warfare.
“So, if I followed you to the ladies’ room right now and slid my hands into your panties, you wouldn’t be wet for me?”
Too late. The nuclear plant that was my heart was in full meltdown, and so was my throbbing pussy, to the point where I was tempted to run to the ladies’ room just for the thrill of it all.
“Stop!” My voice shook, my breaths hitching. “Answer my question.”
“Would you prefer that?” he asked seriously, his tongue peeking out to run along his bottom lip, his stare dark and unyielding as he appraised me.
Nod your head, Raquel. To my surprise, I mustered something that must have been a semblance of a nod, barely aware of my body sagging into the booth that I was practically creaming all over to begin with.
Damn him.
He sighed in defeat. “My family emigrated here when I was eight. I’m the second child of four, but the only son.”
“Four?” I deadpanned. I knew he had mentioned close to a half dozen times that he had three sisters, but some part of me thought that had been a running joke, not reality. My mother would have offed herself. “Your parents were busy.”
He picked at a rogue piece of bacon. “My big fat Portuguese family.”
“Why did they decide to come to the States?”
Sean popped a piece of bacon into his mouth, moving onto the bowl of granola and yogurt that he busied himself deconstructing. “I think they were hoping life would be easier here, and in some ways, it was,” he said as he paved a path in the middle of the yogurt bowl, revealing a stark line white line. “But things were also hard, and not speaking a lick of English back then didn’t help.”
I could imagine some of what he described. My family had struggled, and aside from the depths of Dad’s Irish accent, my family’s struggles had never been due to a language barrier. I couldn’t imagine what that kind of move would be like for someone who didn’t speak English.
“What do your sisters do?”
“I gotta be honest,” he said with a sigh. “I preferred this the other way around.”
“Of course you did. No one likes feeling like they’re in the hot seat, but,” I waved my fork in his direction, “I’m the one conducting this interview now.”
Sean threw his head back, another laugh ripping through his chest. “Is that what this is?”
“Didn’t you know? I’m getting my do-over.”
“Your do-over,” he repeated, his head tilted laconically. “I just thought I was on a date with a beautiful girl.”
That flustered me. Heat hit the back of my neck as it made its ascent toward my cheeks. I didn’t know what to do with this kind of attention that didn’t dilute. I had expected that by now, the interest would have waned even just a little from either one of us, but he just gripped me. I wanted to know everything about him, learn what made him tick, etch every detail into smooth stone.
“Why do I get the impression you don’t hear that much?” he asked, reaching for his mug and lifting it to sip his coffee.
“Hear what?”
“That you’re beautiful.”
I lifted my gaze to meet his. I did feel beautiful under his arresting gaze that ceased my heart, seated across from him in this forgettable diner that I had never stepped inside of in all the years I had worked in Eaton.
“I guess I never really have,” I said with a half shrug. “Cash might have said it here and there, but I suspect it was deployed to get out of trouble.”
He opened his mouth to speak but I held out a hand, silencing him. “You’re deflecting. You got more than a chapter of my life, and now I want something from yours.”
Sean’s frown was so brief, I thought it maybe I’d imagined it until his focus concentrated on my lips. “I’d rather deflect in other ways.”
I cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Should have thought about that before you ordered the entire breakfast menu.”
“Think it’s too late to cancel?”
“I’m pretty sure someone ran out to grab eggs to fulfill this order, so yes.”
“Fuck,” he grumbled. “Okay, okay. I’m ready, your honor.”
I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t on trial, and I had been forthcoming with him—so what was he avoiding? For someone who had been so gung-ho about talking about feelings and pushing all the boundaries, he clammed up tighter than a chastity belt now that he was on the receiving end of the questions.
“What are you avoiding telling me?”
“Nothing.” He was emphatic.
My eyes narrowed at him.
“I was like this with you the first time we met, too, I’ll remind you.”
He wasn’t wrong, but I had assumed he would be a little more open now that…I had been beyond open with him. Literally, I didn’t think my legs could have parted any farther apart the day before, and I had had a bad case of verbal diarrhea not that long ago.
“Go on,” he coaxed. “Ask your questions.”
“I’ve met Trina, but what are your other sister’s names?”
“Maria and Olivia.”
“What do they all do?”
“My older sister Maria is a lawyer.”
I didn’t miss the morose way he said her name and wondered why.
“Livy wants to be the next Emma Watson, and Trina is living in my guest bedroom and helping me with odd jobs.”
“I didn’t realize Trina lived with you.” It made me think of all the times I had fantasized about Holly Jane and I living together on our own. I felt a small tug on my heartstrings.
Sean looked uncomfortable, pushing the home fries around on one of the plates. “Yeah.” His brows crashed down hard on his surly face.
“Yeah,” I repeated. “I think it’s nice that you guys live together.”
He snorted.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Next question.”
I didn’t like the grim mask of disapproval that he had slid on. Was he actually uncomfortable with all of this?
Reaching
for my mug, I pondered my next question before I asked it. “Why did you really take over your father’s business?”
Sean’s jaw rocked from side to side. Time came to an impasse, the seconds stretching to a full minute before he uttered a terse, “Pass.”
“You don’t get to pass!” I exclaimed, unable to contain my incredulity. “Are you kidding me?”
His glower was unrelenting. “I don’t want to answer. I pass.”
“Answer the question or I’m outta here.” It was a petty move on my part, but I had been nothing but an unequivocal open book this evening, and dammit, he was going to do the same. He was the reason we were both here to begin with. I wasn’t playing this game with him where he got to be selectively dismissive—not after I had just shared my demons with him.
“Are you kidding me?” he echoed, his darkening eyes daring me.
Without a word, I grabbed my jacket from beside me and slid out of the banquette.
“Raquel, c’mon,” he called as I moved for the door. I heard him voice a slurry of curses as the door chimed and the cold air hit me, my nipples puckering under the cups of my bra as I wrestled into my leather jacket.
The door chime signaled his approach. His footsteps were heavy behind me, his advancement growing closer and closer until his hand hooked my elbow, spinning me around to face him. All six feet, two inches of him scowled at me, like he couldn’t believe I had had the audacity to up and leave.
“Did you just walk out on me?”
I shifted my gaze to the tree opposite us, then back at the diner before my stare landed back on his face and the jaw that ticked with annoyance. “It would appear that way, yes,” I said caustically.
“Why?” His expression said he was taxed, but his eyes screamed rejection. That softened my frostiness by only a degree or two.
My spine lengthening, I replied, “Because it’s not fair that I’m willing to be forthright and you’re going to withhold information from me because they clearly make you uncomfortable. Do you think it was easy for me?”
