Page 58 of Craving Cooper

“That’s what I’ve always believed,” he says, rubbing his thumb against my knuckles and making my skin tingle… not just on my hand, but everywhere. “I’ve always run a mile from anyone who’s asked for more, or wanted any kind of commitment from me.” I lower my head, feeling utterly despondent. “Hey…” he says, and I look up again. “People can change, Mallory.”

“Can they? Can they really change that much?”

“Yes. I have.”

He gazes into my eyes, raising my hand at the same time, and leans in as he opens it, uncurling my fingers, and dips his head, kissing my palm, letting his lips linger. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My body’s on fire and I watch as he looks up again. Something’s changed. I can feel it.

And I like it.

“Your turn,” he says, lowering my hand to the table again.

“My turn to what?”

“Talk about yourself.”

I’m still struggling with breathing and thinking, but I nod my head. “In that case, it’s your turn to ask questions.”

“Okay. Tell me about your childhood.”

“My childhood? We didn’t go that far back with you.”

“I know we didn’t, but I’ve spent a lot longer being an adult than you have… and besides, you asked what I wanted to know, and this is it.”

I feel cornered, and wish he’d asked about almost anything else. Still, he’s been honest with me, and I know I’ll have to tell him about it sometime. So why not now? At least it’ll get it over with.

“My childhood wasn’t… it wasn’t pretty,” I say, and he frowns, although I don’t give him time to say anything. “I was brought up in a children’s home.”

“What happened to your parents?” he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice. He sounds concerned, almost fearful, and I wish we could be somewhere else now… somewhere we could sit closer, and he could hold me. I think it might be easier for both of us.

“My mom died when I was six.”

“And your dad?”

“I never knew who my father was. For the first six years of my life, I lived with my mom in a trailer park, and the men in her life came and went on a fairly regular basis. My memories of that time are pretty blurred. All I can remember is that some of the men stayed long enough for me to know their names, although most of them didn’t, a few of them beat her, some worse than others, and I never – not even for one second – felt safe.”

“Jesus… Mallory,” he whispers under his breath, holding my hand even tighter. “How did your mom die?”

“An accidental overdose. That’s what they said it was.”

“Were you there?”

I nod my head. “She hadn’t come out of her bedroom, even though I’d already fixed my breakfast and eaten it, and watched some cartoons, so I went in and I found her, lying across her bed. I thought she was asleep, but she wouldn’t wake up, no matter how hard I shook her.”

He shakes his head, bringing up his other hand and holding mine in both of his. “What did you do?”

“I went to the woman who lived in the trailer next to ours. She called the cops and looked after me until someone came and took me away.”

“And what happened to you after that?”

“I was sent to the children’s home, although it was more like a boarding school, really. It was warm and dry, and the people who ran it were kind enough… in their own way.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, and I look down at our hands.

“It means they were strict, but fair… at least in my experience.”

“But there was no affection? No love?” he says.

“I didn’t know what love was.”

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