Page 21 of So Bad It Must Be Good

He returned his gaze to the road, not sure he had it in him to meet her all-too-seeing expression. Outside of customers, whom he made an effort to charm, most people assumed he was a serious and standoffish guy. He’d never thought much of that perception. He didn’t care if people saw him that way, because it wasn’t who he was. It was his persona or his shell or something. It had nothing to do with him as a man.

“I like to fix things. I like to help people. It’s all the same really. Standoffish or not, it’s not . . .” He shook his head. Was he trying to get into some deep philosophical conversation with her? No. “I don’t mind helping. End of story.”

“I see that. It’s a very admirable quality the way you do it.”

“The way I do it?”

“Yes, there’s a difference between wanting to help people, to fix something, and wanting to control via fixing or helping them. You help to fix a situation, or jump in to lend someone a hand. Some people. . . well, they lend a hand because they want to use their hand to shape you.”

He shot her another quick glance and he figured she was thinking about her family. The Gallaghers had always been something of an enigma to Liam. He’d had more than one conversation with his father about how strange the Gallagher family was. Because for as many weird family issues as the Patricks had, there was a very clear bond, a connecting tissue of love.

Liam didn’t always know how to get along with his brother, or how not to be a little bit bitter, but he still loved Aiden. He’d do anything for him or Mom or Dad.

He didn’t understand people who would shape someone into what they wanted them to be. Who would . . . what was the word she’d used last night? Suffocate. She’d felt suffocated and pressed down into decoration, and he didn’t get it. But it didn’t surprise him in the least the Gallaghers could and did.

He pulled into the McDonald’s lot and glanced at Kayla. She had both hands pressed to her stomach now, a miserable look on her face.

She leaned over the console between them and placed her hand on his forearm. Her pinky brushed the bare part of his wrist where the cuff of his shirt ended.

He had the uncomfortable memory of helping her put that T-shirt on last night. He’d done his best to keep his eyes averted, and she had pulled the shirt over her body, she’d just been struggling to get her arms in the sleeves.

So he’d had to look at least a little, and there’d been acres of pale skin and light-reddish freckles just about everywhere. He’d been as respectful and responsible as possible, but he couldn’t erase the memory of how her red hair looked wet and tangled, or how her skin smelled with his soap on it.

“I can’t bear the thought of you putting yourself out anymore for me, so please just get me an order of hash browns and maybe a hot chocolate in the drive-through. Then you’ll take me home and I will get out of your hair. Because you have done so much more than enough.” She squeezed his arm, the pressure warm and sure. “Please.”

He inclined his head in agreement. Honestly, the best thing for both of them was to get this over with. No memories of freckles or tangled hair to haunt him.

Okay, it’d probably still haunt him, but she wouldn’t be all . . . there watching it happen.

He drove to the drive-through and ordered her breakfast. He ordered himself a coffee and then drove to the address she’d given him.

Any time he glanced over at her, no matter how hard he tried not to, she had her eyes closed. Clearly she was still dealing with some nausea or dizziness, but she nibbled on the hash brown and drank the hot chocolate and somehow looked all too appealing doing it in the passenger seat of his truck.

He pulled up to her address and frowned at the nondescript apartment building. “This is where you live?” It wasn’t that it was particularly terrible, but it was bland and very close to dingy.

She opened her eyes and looked at the building and grimaced. “Yes. This is where I live.”

“I can’t picture you living in a place like this.” Which was another one of those things he should have kept to himself. What the hell was wrong with him?

She glanced over at him, cocking her head. “Why?”

“I . . . You’re just . . . You know, I don’t know.”

Her mouth curved into a full-blown smile. “Yes, you do. Why are you surprised I live here?”

He sighed. This woman. “I just figured you’d live in some sort of hipster place with gardens and shit.”

She laughed and then pressed a hand to her temple because it clearly aggravated her hangover. “I used to. But I don’t have the funds for hipster garden shit anymore.”

“Right. Well.”

She gathered up her trash, and he tried to tell her to leave it, but she shook her head.

“I’m not leaving any more mess in your life. I promise.” She smiled at him as she pulled the keys out of her cross-body purse. “Thank you. I can’t even begin to express how much I appreciate everything you did.”

“Even shrinking your dress?” he asked, nodding to his T-shirt over her clothes.

“You were patient and kind, and you let me puke in your bushes and sleep in your bed. I think a shrunken dress was a very small price to pay.”

---