Page 13 of Her Defiant Heart (Damaged Hearts 1)

He smiles, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m training right now, so I can’t eat too much junk.”

“Training for what?” I know what he’s in training for. I know everything about this guy that I could find in my extensive Google search and hardcore sleuthing on his social media.

“Basketball.” He shrugs when I give him my best ooh I’m impressed look. “I’m just okay. I mostly play as a stress reliever. I won’t go pro or anything.”

“You really don’t think so?” In some of my Rhett Montgomery research, the sports-related articles have mentioned that he has potential, but he’s not what they consider tall enough.

“Nah. I’m not a giant like the rest of the pros.” He shrugs again before he starts eating from his bowl of fruit.

“You’re pretty tall, though.” That was another thing I read in that online article about dating. Build them up. Be a fangirl. I’m not real good at that, but I can learn. This is a start.

“Not tall enough.” He says it so matter-of-factly, I’m taken aback.

“And you’re okay with that? It’s not your dream, to play for the pros?”

“I’m just being realistic. I’m decent, but I’m not a superstar, and I’m not built like a superstar either.” He stops eating to take a drink of his mimosa, his gaze never leaving mine. I can’t look away either, which is unsettling. What is so enthralling about this guy anyway?

“Being realistic is no fun,” I tell him with a mock pout, my lips pursed.

He doesn’t smile or laugh, though. Just keeps watching me, his expression serious. “What about you? What are your dreams?”

I’m taken off guard by his question. A question no one has ever really asked me before. “Um…” My voice drifts and I realize my mind is void. Empty. I don’t have any dreams.

Well. I do dream of taking down my mother in every horrible way possible, but I can’t tell him that. He’ll think I’m a total psycho.

“Come on.” Rhett shifts in his seat, leaning forward, his hawk-like gaze still trained on mine. “There’s got to be something you want. Something you hope for.”

“I want to graduate college.”

He dismisses my statement with a wave of his fingers. “Boring. Dig a little deeper.”

“What’s your dream?” I toss back at him, trying to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about my hopes and dreams. I’ve lived pretty much my entire life without any. What’s the point in starting now?

“Aw, come on. Don’t dodge my question.” He’s smiling, but there’s a determined gleam in his eyes that throws me. I don’t like how intent he is on finding out my dreams. Maybe they’re none of his damn business. “Tell me. You’ve got to have at least one dream. One wish for your world.”

“Peace and harmony?” I joke, but he’s not having it. Neither am I. In fact, I’m starting to get pissed. “Look, I barely know you. I don’t feel comfortable sharing all of my secret hopes and dreams and fears with you, okay?”

“Hey, sorry.” He leans back in his chair, seemingly shocked. I didn’t mean to sound so hostile, but I can’t have him trying to dig around and figure out what drives me to do what I do. I have to keep up my carefully constructed wall around me at all times when I’m with him.

I can’t have emotional outbursts in front of him either, so I need to calm the hell down before he decides I’m not worth it.

Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly and then say, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump all over you.”

“No, I get it. It’s okay. I’m sorry too. I forget that other people aren’t like me.”

Oh God. Please don’t tell me he’s going to give me a bunch of crap about how he’s different than other guys and I’m supposed to fall for it. “What do you mean by that?”

“It probably seems weird, but I don’t mind telling strangers my secrets.” When I send him a look, he continues, “I’m serious. We don’t know each other that well. Who are you going to tell my secrets to? If I confess all to someone I’m close with, then they’ll blab to whoever will listen, mostly to people who know me. And that’s usually people I don’t want to know my secrets. I can’t risk it.”

He is oddly making sense to me. He’s also admitting he has secrets. I want to know every single one of them—so I can use them against him when the time is right. “So what you’re saying is, I’m not a risk.”

“Not yet.” His gaze warms when it drops to my mouth for the briefest moment. I go warm too, and I tell myself to get over it. “But you might be.”

I hate what he just said. I hate worse my reaction to his words. He wants to keep seeing me. He’s implying he wants me to become a risk. I should be thrilled. I’ve got him right where I want him.

Instead, I’m nauseous. My food doesn’t sound so good anymore, and I can feel a headache coming on. I didn’t expect to feel awful. To almost feel...sorry for him. And that’s totally ridiculous, because I don’t care about this guy. I can’t care about him at all. He’s the enemy. For years I’ve hated him, and at one point, I focused all my blame on him for taking my mother away from me. Stupid, right?

But this boy sitting across from me knows her. Grew up with her. Complains about her like he has every right to, when he doesn’t. He so doesn’t.

---