Page 70 of The Foul Out

I pressed a palm to my chest and rubbed a small circle. But the betrayal in her eyes only made the pain flare. “I’m telling you now,” I said. Now. Before it went any farther. Before our relationship shifted, and details like that would matter.

Hands balled into fists, she lifted her chin, those golden eyes hard. “Why. Not. Before?” The tone reminded me so much of Piper. Each angry word was like a peck to the pain in my chest.

This wasn’t the kind of mad I liked. The kind of exasperation I worked to pull out of her. No, this was something else.

I didn’t want to lie to her. I could live with not giving her every detail, but I would never lie.

“Because Piper needed it. And if not for our connection, she would have easily been chosen for a grant.”

Understanding flashed across her face, and for a moment, I thought maybe we would get through this. Either way, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“That connection, which ultimately meant we couldn’t consider her, wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t your fault. It was mine.” I reached across the two feet of space between us, a small distance that felt more like the length of I-95. But the second my thumb brushed her cheek, she jerked back so hard her head hit the door.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

“I wanted to help,” I whispered. “I want Piper to have what she needs.” I could lie, sugarcoat the truth, but I wouldn’t, even though it wouldn’t go over well. “And I was worried you would throw a fit and refuse to accept my help.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms, her nails digging into her sweater. “I am not so proud that I would throw a fit when offered help for my daughter.”

Now probably wasn’t the time to point out the argument we’d had about Little Fingers.

“I would have worked something out. I would have figured out a payment plan or called it a loan or, I don’t know, pawned jewelry if I needed to.” She ran her hands over her face. “But it was wrong of you not to tell me.”

“I’m sorry.” I hoped like hell she could see my honest remorse, because I never meant to hurt her. “I was trying to take some stress off you.”

She snapped her head up, her eyes slits. “This was the exact type of bulldozing I told you I wasn’t okay with.”

“Technically,” I argued, though she was so fucking right, “that conversation was after I’d done this.” I flashed her my most adorable smile.

Rather than crack a smile like I hoped—clearly, being my cute-ass self wasn’t going to help me right now—she glowered. “Go home, Kyle.”

“Harper, please. I was kidding.”

“Go home,” she repeated, holding her hand out.

Deflating, I dropped the keys into her palm. Then I watched as she opened the door and disappeared inside without looking back. The door clicked shut, and at the metallic sound of the lock turning, I splayed my hand on the solid wood painted white and leaned close.

“I’m sorry, Harper. I just want to take care of you and the kids. Make all your lives better.” I waited, resting my forehead against the door, and when she didn’t respond after several heartbeats, I turned back to the elevator. I’d only taken a step or two when the stainless-steel doors slid open and Trevor stepped off. Twenty minutes ago, I might have made a smug remark. Now? I couldn’t bring myself to even speak. So I gave him a quick chin tilt and walked past.

“Hey, Bosco,” he called as I stepped onto the elevator. “Harper is great,” he said when I met his eye. “Just be good to her, okay?”

With a nod, I swallowed the lump in my throat. Harper was amazing. And I was trying to be good to her, but I was apparently terrible at it. Even so, I was the kind of guy who always went down swinging. I just had to figure out how to fix this. Because if anything was worth my effort, it was Harper.

I tuckedmy phone into my pocket, knowing that Harper wouldn’t answer. I hoped she’d smile at the messages, at least, and know that I was thinking about her.

“What’s got my boy so blue this week?” My mom rested her forearms on her new soapstone counters. That had been the perfect choice against the white cabinets.

I forced my lips to lift into a facsimile of a smile. “How could I be sad when I’m home with my mama?”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, making her blondish-gray hair brush her shoulders. “Don’t try to be cute. Doesn’t work on me anymore.”

Apparently it didn’t work on Harper either.

“I’m good, Mom. Just stuff going on at home.”

She tapped her deep burgundy nails on the counter, the sound snagging my attention.

“Are those turkeys on your nails?” I swore they had been burnt orange with white polka dots yesterday.

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