Page 42 of Rhett

“All your favorite questions are about food.”

He shrugs. “I’ve asked about seasons and other things, but what can I say, I enjoy eating.”

We chuckle as he turns off the water.

I lean against the counter, not sure what else to do with myself. “Baked ziti. My mom used to make it.” Memories I keep locked away begin to push to the surface. “Sometimes, when my father wasn’t around, I would make it with her. We’d laugh and cook… Normally it was Morgan who did things like that with her, so it was fun when I did, but it was mostly baked ziti.”

“Why only when your dad wasn’t around? And why was it usually Morgan?”

“Because Morgan didn’t care what our dad thought. He was closer to Mom. It was my fault, not theirs. There were times they would ask me to join them, both Morgan and Mom, but I always said no, and eventually Morgan stopped asking.” Why wouldn’t he? All I did was show him I wouldn’t choose him. That I’d always choose Dad or school or anything else over my own brother.

“And your dad?” he prompts, then picks up a hand towel and begins…drying my hands. My breath catches, and I know I should pull away, but I don’t, don’t want to. I need this, needsomething.

“Helping my mom in the kitchen wasn’t in his plans for me. He kept me on a strict schedule with responsibilities he deemed important—my education, extracurriculars, volunteering, anything that made me look good to others because that made him look good.” It takes me a moment to realize I’m answering his questions. I wouldn’t have done that before, and maybe I wouldn’t have with anyone else. Or hell, maybe I’m reading too much into the situation, and it’s just that my mouth is getting more used to letting words out because of talking with Talia.

Tripp sets the towel down and lets go of my hands. I immediately miss the contact, my brain spinning with what that could mean and why I’m feeling it now when I never have my whole life.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you.”

“At the time, I thought I wanted it. I would have done anything to make my father proud, to show him I could be just like him.” Now he disgusts me, and parts of myself disgust me too.

“That’s because he was your dad, and you were a child. You didn’t know better. You didn’t understand the consequences. You just wanted to make him proud. He should have known better. Not you.”

I shake my head. Everything he says is true. I understand that. Iknowit, but I have a lifetime of trauma and learned behavior…and part of me still wishes he’d been different. That feels guilty talking about him this way. I have to bite down my urge to snap at Tripp, to take my anger at my dad and myself out on him, but I don’t want to do that to him. I don’t want to do it to anyone. I’ve done it too much with Morgan and East. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Okay.” His gaze goes even softer. “Can we make baked ziti one day, though? You could teach me how. Maybe Meadow-bug too. If you don’t want to, you don’t have—”

“Yes,” I blurt out.

“Perfect. What’s your favorite color?”

“Huh?” I meet his cobalt gaze.

“You said everything I ask you is about food, so I’m shaking things up.”

He grins, and I can’t help but do the same in response. “Blue.”

“Your favorite piece you’ve ever made?”

“My porch swing. It’s for my mom.” And there I go again,talkingin this way that’s new to me.

“Well, that tells me a lot about you right there. Even if I didn’t already see it, now I’d know you have a big-ass heart in that chest of yours.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t know me very well.”

But then, I don’t know myself very well either.

“I know you,” he says softly. “And I want to know you more.”

The room gets echoey, blood rushing through my ears, heart pounding, chest aching…body tingling. I want to know him more too, but I can’t seem to say that. Don’t know how to let it be real. I sure as shit don’t know what it means.

I’m still leaning against the counter, with Tripp right in front of me. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that saysCassidy’s Carpentryabove his heart. There’s a dusting of red stubble along his jaw, which is square and strong. His hair is messy, something I’ve noticed a lot with Tripp, parts of it flat from the beanies while other hairs stick up like they refuse to behave…the way I’ve always behaved.

When have I ever in my life broken the rules? When have I done something unexpected, something for no other reason than I just wanted to? The job, maybe, but even that is something I have to figure out one way or another because I can’t be unemployed forever.

Tripp swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs. The pulse in his neck beats to what feels like the same drum as my heart. He smells like fresh-cut wood, cinnamon, and kindness. Does kindness have a smell? If so, it’s Tripp Cassidy.

His gaze smolders, like he’s feeling the same want I am. The way he’s looking at me, eyes on my mouth, I think maybe he is.

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