Page 18 of The Worst Man

Eight

** Three weeks later **

As it turned out, Hank’s walk-in steam shower was nearly the same size as the bedroom back at my place. With two shower heads at either end and one long bench lining the back wall, it reminded me of the elegant spa I’d treated myself to on my thirtieth birthday. Minus the orgasms, of course.

The luxury didn’t stop there though.

I’d been completely wrong about the type of place Hank had lived in. There wasn’t a speck of chrome or black lacquer to be found. Instead, everything about his house in Rocky Cove’s historic district dripped with understated class. Frankly, I was surprised by how warm and welcoming it all was. If a designer would have asked me to flip through home design magazines pointing out everything that I liked, it would have looked a lot like his place.

Still, I had reservations about moving in.

Hank made his way from the chef’s kitchen at the center of the house and out the double french doors onto his the deck carrying a tray that held a pitcher of sun tea, two glasses filled with ice and sprigs of fresh mint, and a couple of BLTs. Setting it all down on the patio table, he dropped a kiss to the top of my head and then took a seat in the chair next to me. “So what do you think? Have you given any more thought to moving in here with me?”

While most all facets of my relationship with Hank were going exceedingly well, we still hadn’t come to a consensus about our living arrangements. I didn’t consider myself a particularly jealous person, but I was intensely aware of the difference between Hank’s past and my own. I’d brought exactly zero men back to the apartment I rented, whereas the number of women he’d likely brought back here would make my jaw fall open if I ever got brave enough to ask the question.

I hated that this was even an issue for me, but we’d spent too long aiming barbs at one another about this exact thing. Hank liked to tease me about how boring my love life was, while I noted with much eye rolling and sarcasm how active his was. The stark difference between our sex lives was far too ingrained in my psyche for me to be able to ignore it with any measure of success. The fact of the matter was, it made me uncomfortable to imagine the ghosts of his past partners living here among us.

I gazed out onto the water directly beyond us, sailboats and yachts bobbing in the harbor. It was like a scene out of a movie, or a picture printed on a postcard. “Remind me again, how long you’ve owned this place?” I reached for the pitcher and filled up our glasses. I already knew the answer, but I was stalling for time.

“I bought it five years ago and had it remodeled last summer,” he said, lifting the tea to his mouth. “And you didn’t answer the question.” His gaze found mine over the rim of his glass.

I smiled slightly. “When did you get so perceptive?”

He set his glass down on the table between us. “I’ve always been perceptive.”

I leveled a dubious glare at him. “Says the man who routinely says the most inappropriate thing at the most inappropriate time.”

He didn’t flinch under the weight of my condemnation. “You say that like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

That was … surprising. “Do you?”

He scratched the coarse, dark hair lining his jaw and his gaze darted out over the water. A clean shaven Hank was an attractive man by any standards, but with his new, thick beard, he was far too sexy for his own good. If we weren’t having a very serious conversation, I’d be tempted to crawl into his lap and rub it against my nipples.

“It’s a type of defense mechanism, I suppose,” he said, pulling me from my dirty fantasies.

Later, I promised myself. “How so?”

“If your parents think you’re an imbecile, they don’t place so many unreasonable expectations on you. It’s easier to go through life acting like a clown than it is to be perfect all the time.” His voice was low and guarded, and I could tell from the pinched look on his face that this wasn’t a comfortable topic of discussion.

While I was a generally private person who kept most people at arm’s length, Hank surrounded himself with hangers-on and random acquaintances. Over the years, I’d gotten the impression that his friendships never moved beyond the superficial. It was one thing that annoyed me about him. I might only have a handful of friends, but they were ride or die. Meanwhile, all these people thought they knew him, but they truly didn’t.

And apparently I’d been one of them. But I wanted that to change. It had to, if this relationship was going to work. Which meant being honest about my reservations about moving into his house.

“I love this place, but—”

“But you don’t want to live here.”

“It’s beautiful, truly. Everything I could ever want in a house, but you have a history here. One that doesn’t include me,” I said pointedly.

“Of course I do. Like I said, I’ve lived here for five years. But it’s not my history I’m concerned with. It’s the future I want to talk about. One I thought we were on the same page about.”

“I knooooow,” I breathed out, feeling ridiculous and petty. “It’s just …” I trailed off, hating myself more and more by the second.

“It’s just what?” he asked, bending over at the waist and resting his elbows on his thighs, his chin resting on his upturned thumbs and his fingers steepled in front of his nose.

I looked away. “How many women have you brought here?” The words rushed from my lips in a quick, nearly indecipherable gust.

Hank reached out and latched onto the arms of the chair. Spinning it around to face him, the legs bumping over the grooves in the decking, his gaze locked onto mine. “Is that what this is about?”

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