Page 45 of That Reunited Feeling

Once he’s out of sight I put my hurt to one side and snap my attention to Tom.

“I do not need you butting in when I’m telling my kid what to do,” I say through clamped teeth so my voice doesn’t carry.

“It was just a bit of fun, Han.” He closes the gap between us and reaches out to touch my arm. I step back and he misses.

Tom sighs. “I made sure to sort out his homework problem first.” He sounds like he’s worried he’s in trouble too. Good. “Then he pointed at the guitar and asked if it was mine. So I asked if he’d like me to show him how to play.”

Mindful that I have no idea where Maggie and Jim are, I step farther into the room and close the door. “And just exactly how much do you expect to teach him in a few weeks?”

“What do you mean? He was enjoying it. I thought it would do him good. I thought?—”

“Or maybe youdidn’tthink.”

I want to shake him. Grab him by the collar, by the shoulders, by the arms, by anything and shake him—shake some sense into him and some frustration out of me. Frustration over how I feel about him. Frustration over how amazing it was to watch him with Dylan. Frustration over how I had our life plans all sorted out but now a giant Tom-shaped wrench has been tossed into the works, making everything confusing.

“You can’t teach him to play guitar, Tom. What are you thinking?” I throw my palms toward the ceiling. “You’ll barely be through the basics before you jet back across the Atlantic neverto think of him again. Meanwhile, he’ll be hooked on learning the guitar and wish you were here to teach him the rest.”

“And I’ll happily pay for lessons for him, if that’s what?—”

Oh my God. My hands turn into claws of frustration at my side. “That’s absolutely not what I mean.” This is possibly the most exasperating conversation of my life. “I do not mean that you should throw money at us. It’s about making a human connection, Tom.”

And that’s exactly what I saw just now, in that friendly yet also fatherly rapport. A connection. A real, natural connection. And I can’t allow that to develop. For Dylan’s sake. “It’s about building a relationship with my son, then leaving and breaking his heart.”

I’ll be damned if he’ll see me cry, but I’m so close to tears I’m not sure I can stop them.

Tom steps closer. “Are you sure it’s Dylan we’re talking about?”

“Yes.” My voice cracks. And I am sure. I can look after myself, but I have to look after my child too. “It’s my job to protect him, Tom. To stop him from being hurt. To not let some guy swoop into his life, make him feel like he’ll be there forever, then disappear.”

“Just because we’re only going to be in the same place for a couple months, doesn’t mean we have to lose touch afterward.”

I snort and turn away. “Yeah, right. Heard that one before.”

Then his hand is on my arm, taking charge, spinning me around to face him.

The humor is gone from his eyes, replaced with seriousness. And lust. A serious lust. “We’re not kids anymore, Hannah.”

Heavy breaths heave in my chest. As much as I want to pick up where we left off in the car last night, I can’t. Yes, I’m protecting myself, but I’m protecting my son too.

“We’re not.” I hold his gaze. “But Dylan is.”

He lets go of my arm and rakes his fingers through a tangle of hair until his hand rests on the back of his neck. He rubs it like years of tension live there.

“You keep talking about me leaving.” He looks at me from under his brows, head dipped as he massages his neck. “But I’ll just be going back to where I came from. This time it’s you who’s doing the leaving. It’s you who’s heading to Los Angeles. For some godforsaken reason.”

And that’s when the volatile cocktail of emotions, that have been swirling around inside me since Tom reappeared, smash together like a roaring wave against a rock wall.

What am I supposed to do with the confusing mishmash of the hurt from seventeen years ago, the feelings I still seem to have for Tom now, and my need to prioritize my son and do right by him at all times?

Cry, apparently.

The tears flow, the lump in my throat burns. “I’m going there for Dylan, Tom. For Dylan.” The words come out louder than intended, and my foot hits the floor in an involuntary stomp. “Everything I do is for him.” I head across the room toward the front window, desperate to put space between us or Lord knows what I might do. “Everything I’ve done for thirteen years is for Dylan.”

“And what’s in LA for Dylan that’s so fucking important?”

I gaze out toward the driveway for a moment, catching my breath before turning back to face him. “A clinical trial.”

Lines form between Tom’s brows. “Awhat?”

---