Page 46 of Playboy Pitcher
Needing to regain focus, I snort. “Most people would say stupid.”
“Most people stand around waiting for a handout. There’s nothing honorable about driving down a path someone else has already paved.”
Taking my eyes off the road for a second, I look at him. What I find surprises me. Gone is the smirking, sarcastic grin. In its place is a clenched jaw and pensive frown. But it’s his eyes that catch my attention the most. The light that’s always dancing in them has flickered out.
There’s something inside Ben LaCroix that he keeps locked away too.
Turning my attention back to the road, I take a deep breath. “Ben, I—”
“Was it Drake?”
“Huh?”
“Why you left the country and changed your name. Was it because of Drake?”
What the hell? Is this guy writing a thesis on me?
Whatever demon Ben is hiding has been subdued, and the light is back in his eyes. It’s just as well. I’m too preoccupied with his relentless inquisition to dissect his mood swing.
I raise an eyebrow, and his cheeks tinge pink at my silent question. “Our first baseman told us you spent time in France,” he explains.
I sigh. “Partially. But Drake was just the final straw.”
“You’re ballsy, Willow LaCroix.”
“McBaine,” I remind him, the corner of my mouth tilting up.
He grins back. “Why France?”
I shrug. “Why not? It’s not like I had anyone here who’d miss me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see that vertical line sink between his eyes again. I can’t help but wonder if he even knows he does it. “Only child of an only child,” I clarify. “I have no cousins, and everyone else is dead. My ex-stepmother lived in Paris. We were never close by any means. She married my dad for his money, and he married her for…” I smirk, thinking of a polite way to describe the gold-digging bitch. “Well, she was only five years older than me and a French model. Infer what you will.”
Apparently, he does because his next question almost causes me to crash into the guard rail. “What about your real mom?”
“She died when I was six.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Leaning forward, I turn on the radio and punch buttons until I find a station that doesn’t suck and crank up the volume. It probably isn’t polite, but I’m not interested in etiquette. Ben managed to find the one scar that has never healed. One I can’t talk about. With him or anyone.
Maybe he understands, or maybe he just hates classic rock, because as soon as my finger leaves the volume button, his is on it, turning it down to a bare whisper. “So, what was it like living in France?”
“It was France,” I say, going for the volume again, only to have my hand slapped away and the whole damn thing turned off.
Fucker.
“It must have been an artist’s dream.”
As if someone ignited a crystal chandelier inside a dungeon, a smile spreads across my face, and I bounce up from my hunched position. “You don’t know the half of it. Obviously, there’s The Louvre, but that’s just a tourist trap. The real heart of the art scene lies in the independent galleries. There’s one onRue du Grenier-Saint Lazarethat would blow your mind. I spent so much time there, they offered me a job.”
“As an artist?”
“Oh, God no. I’m nowhere near that level of talent. No, just as a greeter. But it was still amazing. Plus, that’s where I met Basile.”
I can sense a drastic change in Ben’s mood. Glancing at him, I find his jaw tightening again as he asks, “Another boyfriend?”
I smirk, shifting my eyes back on the road. “He would’ve been the perfect one.” At his low growl, my smirk turns into a full grin. “Had he not been thoroughly gay.”
