“What’s your family’s lodge like?”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking.
“Big. In the mountains. It was passed down from my grandfather to my mother.”
“And now, it’s your legacy?”
“Something like that,” he murmurs.
“Tell me about something,” I offer, rolling onto my side facing him. It’s a mistake because he’s even more devastating in the dark.
“About what?”
I shrug, tucking my hands under my head.
“Anything.”
He cocks a brow, side-eyeing me.
“You want me to tell you a bedtime story?”
“No,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. “Just anything. Something that you’ve never told anyone.”
He’s silent for a long time. I wait patiently, watching him look up at the slats in the ceiling above.
Just when I think he’s either fallen asleep or he’s going to deny me, he speaks.
“When I was a kid, I had this dog named Pepper. She was just some little mutt, but she was a good dog. She fucking loved pancakes. Mom would make pancakes every Saturday, and the damned dog always got the first one.”
“Your mother had her priorities straight,” I chuckle softly.
“She fucking loved that dog,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wondered if she loved the dog more than us kids.”
“You have siblings?”
His jaw ticks, and his eyes finally find mine.
“I had three. Two—now. A brother and a sister. I’m the oldest.”
Figures. He has big brother energy.
“Can . . . I ask what happened to the other?”
He stares at me for a beat before facing back toward the ceiling.
“Gone. Died in a fire the night Mom did. Up at the old cabin, Dad used to own.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, warmth pooling behind my eyes. Why am I always crying when he tells me about his past?
“Don’t be. Shit happens.”
“You have such an absolute view of it,” I murmur. “Most people would struggle with losing their family that way.”
“No use being sad over shit you can’t change,” he mutters gruffly. “Mom was a good person. A good mom,” he adds after amoment. “Just prefer to think of that rather than what happened to her.”
“What were they like?”
He smirks, chuckling under his breath.