Page 387 of Steamy Ever After

Do I?

It’s a fair question, with an obvious answer. Uncle Pete and I don’t have much time left together, months if we’re lucky. Pancreatic cancer is a relentless monster. I want to share this with him. Not the sex part, but meeting Drake. Going out on a date. Having fun.

Not worrying about when the next punch will come.

I cross the room and plop down into the chair opposite him. “I was out with Drake.”

“Drake?”

“You know, the one who helped me the other night?” I told my uncle all about the mysterious man who shot the wolves and saved me from the blizzard.

“I do. I know him well, as a matter of fact.” He turns his attention back to the book, looking disinterested. Only my uncle is a horrible liar. He’s keenly interested in what I have to say.

“And?”

“And, what?” I worry my lower lip between my teeth, anxiously waiting for my uncle to ask me something—anything—about Drake.

He’s having fun messing with me.

“What do you think about him?” I bounce on the balls of my feet, urging him to pump me for information.

“Are you asking for my opinion or my blessing?”

“I dunno.” I shrug and think about his question. What do I want? “Is he a nice guy?”

“Was he nice to you?”

“Yes.”

More than nice.

Although, when I really think about it, nice guys usually don’t fuck on the first date. For that matter, nice girls don’t either.

“Then I think very well of him.” My uncle is purposefully hedging. “He’s one of the good ones.”

Finally.

It’s nice to hear Uncle Pete commit to an answer. If he thinks Drake is one of the good ones, then I have nothing to worry about. There’s only one problem.

Drake’s not a nice guy.

Although, he’s not pinging any warning bells in my head. Not that failing to set off alarms means anything.

Scott didn’t either.

I’m a horrible judge of character.

Scott’s abuse came on gradually, so much so that I didn’t recognize it for what it was. Even after the second visit to the emergency room, I still made excuses, blaming myself for what happened.

“Uncle Pete, I need to tell you something.”

“What’s up?” He puts the book down and gives me his full attention.

“I want to tell you about Scott.”

His brows tug together, and the gentle smile on his face disappears. I’ve told no one about the abuse.

It’s my ugly secret, and I don’t fully understand all the emotions behind it. While I know, intellectually, that none of it is my fault, I bear a tremendous amount of guilt.

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