Page 104 of The Merger
“Stop it, Carys.” His chest vibrates as he laughs. “You’re being silly.”
“Wait until you see my plan. Tate is usually my accomplice in such matters. I wonder how I can bring him into the fold without telling him how I know all this. I just don’t think Courtney has it in her to bury a body.”
“You have to stop,” he says, trying to hold back his laughter. “Please. Stop.”
I nuzzle against him and sigh. “Fine. But just know I’m sitting here wondering where my shovels are.”
He snorts, shaking his head. But he lets it go.
We ride through the streets of Nashville in silence aside from the music on the radio. I wonder if Gannon and Gray have ever realized these songs sound the same.Do they actually listen to this, or is this their version of elevator music?
I relax against Gannon and think about his admissions tonight and how hard it must’ve been for him to open up to me. It’s not in his nature, and now I better understand why. It took a lot of courage to override his pain and share his story. To give me a peek into his past.
And it must mean something that he wanted to share it with me.
Okay, Gannon. I’ll meet you where you are.
“You’re afraid you’ll be your dad, right? Well, I’ll admit something to you, too. I’m afraid to be too vulnerable with men because the one man I needed to love me refused and I’d rather keep that kind of rejection limited to my father.” I shrug. “We’re a fucked-up pair, Brewer.”
His arms flex around me. “Did you remember where your shovels are?”
“What?” I ask, laughing. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to need one to bury your dad.”
“Nah, he’s old. Let him live his life out in misery.”
I catch his reflection in the window. He’s pensive with his forehead wrinkled in thought. But there’s a peacefulness to him that steals my breath, a sense of calm unusual for Gannon.
As much as I hate Tatum, maybe Gannon seeing her tonight was a good thing. Perhaps he knew he needed this closure and that it would be a difficult conversation … so he took me with him.
Take that, Tatum.
“I’ll give him a knuckle sandwich then,” he says.
“Again, he’s old. That’s not a fair match.”
He snorts. “Do you know how old I am? It’d be a fair match.”
“Whatever. You look like you’re thirty and fuck like you’re twenty, so shut up.”
“Hey, I’ll take that.” He smiles against me. “Do you want to talk about your father? I just dumped a load of shit on you about mine, so if you want to dump yours on me, I’m here.”
I shake my head. “No. I’d rather talk about how you could almost be my father.”
“The hell I could! I was …” He pauses to do math. “Thirteen when you were born.”
“Hey, that happens.”
“Not legally.”
I grin, teasing him. “I’m taking it you don’t have a daddy fetish.”
“Stop it, Carys.”
“How many times have you said that to me?” I say, giggling.
“Too fucking many. And you never listen, so I don’t know why I bother.”
