His father had just been hauled away for breaking the conditions of the restraining order against him, and she was talking about dinner plans. She hated anyone knowing what she’d been through, was ashamed of it, and was doing a damn fine job of pretending she was okay. Rusty being as astute as she was, picked up on what his mother was doing and went along with it, like his old man hadn’t just tried to break the front door down.
“I’d like that, Carol, very much.” And she offered her one of those killer smiles.
A few minutes later the friend arrived, and they were being ushered to the front door. They said their good-byes, and his ma gave him another hug, squeezing him tight, and before she released him, whispered, “I like her.”
Yeah, you and me both.
His mom worried about him. Went on about him settling down every other week. The last thing he needed was her getting false hope.
They left, and Rusty walked beside him in silence. Then without a word, she slid her hand in his, silently offering up a piece of herself to him. He latched on, took what she was freely giving. Right then he needed it, needed her. Her touch, her warmth—shit, it made his gut twist in knots.
“Take me home, Reid.” Her voice was soft, softer than he’d ever heard it, and sweet. His stomach clenched at her words. Of course she wanted him to take her home.
All he wanted to do was crush her to him and never let her go.
She was going to end it. She’d been amazing through this, had gone to his mother and comforted her without hesitation. Still, he was selfish. He wanted more from her. Shit, he wanted it all. But this was the way it had to be, how could it not after what she’d just witnessed?
“Yeah, babe, I’ll take you home.” His voice came out rougher than he’d ever heard it. He wanted to add that he understood, maybe throw in an “it was nice while it lasted” or “hey, maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” but his mouth felt too dry, and he couldn’t force the words out.
But then she shook her head, moving in closer, tits and belly pressing into his arm. He looked down at her tucked against him, and she stared up, no more pity, just open and fucking beautiful. “No. I want you to take me home, to your place.”
She still wanted him? A fucking boulder formed in his throat, and he swallowed it down so he could speak. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Shit. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Twelve
Reid’s Plymouth rumbled up a short driveway in the exclusive Lincoln Beach area and slid into a four-bay garage off the side of a two-story house. There were two other cars taking up space, a black Escalade and a beautifully restored cherry red Cadillac Fleetwood.
The garage door slid shut behind them, and Reid turned off the engine and opened his door. Rusty did the same, climbing out. The sound of waves crashing and the scent of sea air surrounded her instantly. They were close to the beach, and the awesome view he’d described over the phone.
The sick feeling in her stomach hadn’t subsided—a feeling that had near overwhelmed her when they’d pulled up outside Reid’s mother’s house—no, it kept growing and twisting. She’d misjudged him, couldn’t have been more wrong. She’d assumed he’d come from privilege, that he hadn’t worked his ass off for everything he had. Jesus, what he’d come from, it made all he’d built, all he had achieved that much more amazing.
But then nothing should surprise her where Reid was concerned. The more she got to know him, the more layers he’d revealed, the more she liked him.
He came around and took her hand, leading her to the door. He hadn’t said much since leaving his mother, and she was struggling with what to say. The man was ashamed of what she’d witnessed, that much was obvious. He had no reason to be, of course. Rusty felt no different toward him now than she had before they pulled up and saw his father. She wanted to tell him that, but the way he held his shoulders, the set of his jaw, made it clear talking about what just happened was the last thing he wanted to do.
God, what he must have suffered growing up, what he must have seen and heard.
He led her up a short set of stairs and into a big open kitchen. In fact, when he flicked on the lights, the whole place appeared to be open plan. Big comfy couch and chairs, huge TV mounted on the wall. The kind of furniture you’d expect in a bachelor pad. Windows made up the entire front wall, looking out to the ocean. They weren’t close to the beach, they were on the beach. If she opened the doors and stepped outside, her feet would sink into sand. There was a surfboard propped against the wall by sliding doors, sand scattered on the floor around it.
“You surf?”
“Yeah. You want a drink, something to eat?” He was still in the kitchen, watching her take in his place. She couldn’t read the expression on his face because he’d shut everything down, making sure not to expose a damn thing.
“Is that how you broke your nose?”
“Nope.” His gaze remained locked on hers, telling her to leave it and answering her question all at once.
Her stomach lurched. Oh, God. His father did that to him? Another wave of guilt, of shame, over her initial judgment of him hit hard.
“I picked up fresh pasta from Connie earlier, it’ll only take a few minutes to cook if you’re hungry.”
“I’m good for now.” He opened the fridge and held up a soda. “Thanks.”
Grabbing two, he joined her in the living room, and they sat on the couch. He opened her drink and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers and a zing of awareness skated up her arm.
His dark hair was no longer in a knot at the back of his head, it’d come loose during the scuffle with his father and had obviously been short at some point because it was different layers.
Lifting his bottle, he took a long pull, tattooed throat working as he polished off half his drink. His lips were shiny when he finished, and she wanted to taste them, badly. She wanted to make him forget everything that had happened earlier, wipe away all the anger, all the pain he thought he was hiding.
He was staring out at the ocean, picking unconsciously at the label on his drink. “I’m sorry you had to see that, with my old man…”
She reached out, rested her hand on the inside of his strong, corded forearm, over the thick-edged star tattoo there, and gave him a squeeze. “You don’t need to apologize to me. It wasn’t you acting that way.” The muscle under her fingers bunched hard as stone. “I can only imagine what it must have been like for you, when you were a kid…”
“I kicked him out.” He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingers between his legs. “When I was seventeen, when I was strong enough to throw him out and keep him out. I had a full-time job by then, which meant I could take over most of the expenses.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I think he gets so wasted he forgets.”
Jesus. “I’m sorry…”
Shooting to his feet, he took a step back. He didn’t look at her, continued to stare out at the ocean. “I should take you home.” He placed his drink on the table and crossed his arms over his wide chest, heavy biceps bunching, straining against the sleeves of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
He didn’t want her pity, and she got that. In reality they barely knew each other, and she’d just witnessed what she could clearly see shamed him. Placing her drink on the coffee table, she stood and moved closer, close enough she could feel the heat of his body radiating from his skin, and shook her head. “I don’t want to go home.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped, and he dropped his arms to his sides. “This isn’t a good idea, Rusty. Not tonight.”