Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“I had fun too,” Rhett tells her.
We’re quiet until I hear her door close upstairs.
“I can help clean up the kitchen,” Rhett offers.
“No worries. It can wait until later.”
He turns to me, dark eyes holding mine. “I know it sounds weird, but it’ll stress me out if we don’t clean up the mess. Unless you’re just ready for me to go. Shit. I didn’t think about that. I can head out, but I’d really like to help with the dishes first.” He begins to stand, and I reach over, put my hand on top of his. Rhett lowers himself back to the seat.
“I don’t want you to go. I’d like it if you stayed a while. After we do the dishes, of course,” I say playfully, so I don’t sound too intense. Jesus, what is it about him that makes everything feel so much…more?
Rhett looks down at our hands. I don’t know if I should move mine or not, but then he pulls his gaze away from where we’re touching and back to my eyes. “I’d like that…to stay.”
“Good.” I smile, all nerves and excitement, and wondering what in the hell I’m doing, but knowing I’ll stay the path.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rhett
I liked the feel of Tripp’s hand on mine. That’s what I keep thinking about as we stand at the counter together, rinsing off dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.
I liked it.
I liked it.
I liked it.
The touch was so simple. I don’t know that there was anything specific to like, or why I did, or why I’m thinking about it. Why each time his warm, strong arm brushes against mine, goose bumps run the length of my body.
The feeling is completely foreign to me, not just because it’s with a man, but because I don’t typically feel that way at all, about anyone. Male or female. Not even my ex-wife.
“What’s your favorite Italian food?” Tripp asks.
“All your favorite questions are about food.”
He shrugs. “I’ve asked about seasons and other things, but what can I say, I enjoy eating.”
We chuckle as he turns off the water.
I lean against the counter, not sure what else to do with myself. “Baked ziti. My mom used to make it.” Memories I keep locked away begin to push to the surface. “Sometimes, when my father wasn’t around, I would make it with her. We’d laugh and cook… Normally it was Morgan who did things like that with her, so it was fun when I did, but it was mostly baked ziti.”
“Why only when your dad wasn’t around? And why was it usually Morgan?”
“Because Morgan didn’t care what our dad thought. He was closer to Mom. It was my fault, not theirs. There were times they would ask me to join them, both Morgan and Mom, but I always said no, and eventually Morgan stopped asking.” Why wouldn’t he? All I did was show him I wouldn’t choose him. That I’d always choose Dad or school or anything else over my own brother.
“And your dad?” he prompts, then picks up a hand towel and begins…drying my hands. My breath catches, and I know I should pull away, but I don’t, don’t want to. I need this, need something.
“Helping my mom in the kitchen wasn’t in his plans for me. He kept me on a strict schedule with responsibilities he deemed important—my education, extracurriculars, volunteering, anything that made me look good to others because that made him look good.” It takes me a moment to realize I’m answering his questions. I wouldn’t have done that before, and maybe I wouldn’t have with anyone else. Or hell, maybe I’m reading too much into the situation, and it’s just that my mouth is getting more used to letting words out because of talking with Talia.
Tripp sets the towel down and lets go of my hands. I immediately miss the contact, my brain spinning with what that could mean and why I’m feeling it now when I never have my whole life.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you.”
“At the time, I thought I wanted it. I would have done anything to make my father proud, to show him I could be just like him.” Now he disgusts me, and parts of myself disgust me too.
“That’s because he was your dad, and you were a child. You didn’t know better. You didn’t understand the consequences. You just wanted to make him proud. He should have known better. Not you.”
I shake my head. Everything he says is true. I understand that. I know it, but I have a lifetime of trauma and learned behavior…and part of me still wishes he’d been different. That feels guilty talking about him this way. I have to bite down my urge to snap at Tripp, to take my anger at my dad and myself out on him, but I don’t want to do that to him. I don’t want to do it to anyone. I’ve done it too much with Morgan and East. “I don’t want to talk about him.”