Sweet (Landry Family 6)

“Did he …?” I ball my hands against my side.

“No. No, nothing like that. He’d just grunt and then slip back out into the hallway.” She shrugs. “Now that I’m older, I figure he was probably jerking himself off, but I had no clue then. I was probably six or seven and scared shitless.”

Fuck. That’s Ryder’s age.

He’s scared of monsters that don’t exist. She lived with monsters that do.

I run a hand over my forehead. The thought of a little Paige being scared of some psycho in her bedroom makes me want to hurt someone. Bad. But blowing up now isn’t going to help, so I just clench my teeth until they hurt. And then blow out a breath.

“Did you ever tell anyone? Your foster parents? Hollis?” I ask.

“No. Hell, no. The kid would do these little passive-aggressive things during the day—you know, like remove my Barbie’s head. He’d chuckle and then put it back on like it was nothing, but I read between the lines.” Her forehead pinches together. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

A ghost of regret or embarrassment, I’m not sure which, streaks across her face. She lowers her eyes to the floor.

I shift against the cold hardwood. “I can see why you can’t sleep. But I’ll watch your door for you while you’re here. Don’t worry about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I usually lie in bed and wait for my father to come in and beat the fuck out of me.”

Her eyes go wide, but she stays silent.

“He used to just whale on my mom,” I say, gripping the counter behind me. “As soon as the sun went down, all hell would break loose.”

“Then he’d come after you?”

I shove off the counter and pace around like I have something to do. I really just need to move, to work off some of the energy that this shit brings up in me.

“Actually,” I say, “no. My little brother, Dominic, and I used to stick a chair under our door handle at night out of fear. But he never came in after us.” I turn to her and grin sadly. “I guess he was satisfied with knocking us around during the day.”

She hops off the counter. “Nate, I’m sorry. That’s … awful.”

If you only knew the half of it.

“Don’t apologize for him,” I say.

“I’m not. I’m apologizing for you—meaning that I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Her eyes shine with a genuineness, an understanding that I both appreciate and hate. Because that means she can identify with my pain.

My insides twist as I think about someone hurting Paige. It makes me want to pull her into me—makes me want to wrap my arms around her and protect her from the world.

“Everyone goes through shit, right?” I ask. The only alternative to holding her is trying to make her feel better with words. “Some of it is just a little darker than others.”

“I guess.”

She gives me a small grin and picks up her snack again. “You know, most people avoid talking about the unflattering parts of their lives.”

“We live in a social media world. You get everyone’s highlight reel, but that doesn’t mean the outtakes don’t exist.”

She nods. “That’s really hard for me to manage.”

“What is?”

“Remembering that there are outtakes.” She licks her spoon and then walks to the sink and places it inside the basin. “I have a habit of looking at other people’s lives and thinking it must be perfect. Then I feel terrible about myself because mine isn’t. And I don’t have a bad life. It’s a terrible mindfuck.”

I walk to the sink and put my spoon on top of hers. The sound clinks through the room.

“I think most people feel that way sometimes,” I say. “It looks easy and fun, but if you had to live it, you’d have to deal with their bullshit too that you can’t see from afar.”

My words bring a lightness back to her eyes. I watch the relief soften her posture and bring a grin back to her face.

“You’re not a bad philosopher, Nate Hughes.”

I laugh. “I think I’ll stick to running a bar and grill, but thanks.”

“I didn’t say you should quit your day job.”

Our laughter flows together so easily that it disarms me, tugging down the guard I keep between us for good measure.

Paige sticks her finger in the pudding cup and rolls it around the rim. “Speaking of your day job, who is closing tonight?”

“Murray,” I say, watching her lift her finger from the container.

Her eyes flip to mine as she brings her finger to her lips.

Dammit. Don’t you do it.

She does it.

Paige parts her lips, eyes sparkling with mischief.

She knows what she’s doing.

“Be careful,” I say, warning her not to push me too far. I can only take so much of this.

Then she sticks the butterscotch-coated finger between her lips and wraps them around her finger before sliding it back out ever so slowly.