Page 119 of A Forgotten Promise

She lied that night the magazine came. She didn’t want to share pieces of her then. She does now. And it makes me swell with something primal. Like it’s my achievement. Like I earned her trust.

It’s fucking cooking, you idiot.

“Hmmm.” She picks up my shirt from the floor and slides her arms through it. Fuck. I don’t ever want her wearing anything else.

“Cal bailed after two days, but Finn stuck around, and it might have won him his wife.” She angles her head sideways, studying the abstract artwork on the dark wall.

“You said you played them one year only…”

She turns and smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “The following year, my face was in such demand, I didn’t get to go on another vacation.”

Fuck. I’ve half the mind to have my jet fueled and take her to every destination in the world.

She leans against the chest of drawers, biting her lip while she studies me. Her long, bare legs crossed at the ankle, she looks comfortable in my shirt.

Or maybe it’s the lighting in the room. She still has the shadows under her eyes from the lack of sleep, but there is a fresh glow on her face. Like she isn’t expecting to be attacked or threatened anymore, so she’s finally relaxed.

“Every time we talk, it’s me talking and you avoiding,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Tell me about your father.”

Fuck. I scoot to sit up, my back against the headboard. “He died.”

She sighs. “You said you trust me.”

“You need to improve your pillow talk.”

“You see… avoiding.”

I close my eyes. I do trust her. I think I want to tell her. I just don’t quite know what to tell. How to share the mangle of thoughts and emotions that the mere mention of Connor Quinn stirs in me.

The mattress dips at the foot of the bed. When I open my eyes, I find her mirroring my position, leaning against the footboard, her long legs stretched alongside mine.

She isn’t pushing the topic, nagging me to share. It’s like she senses my turmoil, so she came closer, creating space for me to share.

I wish she would push, though, because I can retort her words, but her silent support is hard to rebut.

I sigh. Maybe it’s time to share. “He is not my father.”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t react; she simply holds my gaze. But her composure is telling.

“How did you know?” I have to restrain myself from moving away from her. How could she know?

She quirks her eyebrow up. “You know an awful lot about me.”

“Touché.”

Silence, filled with my lack of will to talk and her abundant patience to listen, stretches for what feels like a lifetime. I have never shared anything personal with anyone, other than my immediate family.

The concept is foreign, foul-tasting, and yet not completely outlandish with Saar. As she pointed out, she shared, and, most of the time, honestly.

Perhaps it’s her upbringing, starved for attention, and then later sharing spaces with so many people all the time. Maybe talking is not a big deal for her.

But what good can come from sharing my thoughts, my disappointments?

“You said you trusted me,” she repeats softly.

“I grew up admiring him. He was my mentor, my hero, my example. But he wasn’t my father.”

“What you just described sounds like a pretty damn good father to me.”

---