“Why’d you leave? You look like you enjoy being here.”
Sighing deeply, he hangs his head. “This place reminds me of my mother.”
When our eyes meet, his are clouded, by the sound of it filled with memories he’d probably rather forget. He pauses and frowns.
“All the bullshit she put my father through…It was real hard to watch. My pops is the best man I know. I hated seeing him hurt.”
I have no words to console him. His story hits too close to home. There’s only silence after that. A stretch of it. It’s comfortable though. In the same way it is when you share it with a good friend, or a great book.
“I was twelve. Alex was outside playing.” I catch Dane watching me, and he doesn’t look away. “I’d gone in to use the bathroom and heard crying…it was my mother. She’d turned on the shower and put a towel over her mouth but I heard her. She was crying hysterically.”
“Why was she crying?” His voice is low and warm, rolling over me as softly as a cashmere blanket.
“The Houston Police Department called to say my father was involved in a domestic dispute. The woman’s husband came home and found them in bed. He shot them both.”
The memory takes me back instantly, the feelings so raw I sometimes wonder if we don’t store them in our bodies the same way we do a dormant virus waiting to rear its ugly head every so often.
“Later that night my mother told us he was killed. I remember thinking good riddance. I wanted her to divorce him.”
“Did she?”
“No. He was a trucker, gone a lot. It wasn’t the first time she caught him lying about a job. And still she refused to divorce him.” The memory still makes me mad.
A large hand covers mine, the one resting on the top of the stall door. When I try to pull it away, he won’t let me. Instead he gently wraps his rough fingertips around my wrist and holds on, his thumb brushing back and forth over my pulse point. I look up and find his expression uncharacteristically sober.
“Where’s your mother now?” I ask.
He lets go of me and returns to leaning on the stall door, forearm hanging over the top.
“Barstow, California.” His hands stretch and tighten into fists. “She runs a roadside diner with her boyfriend.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Not as long as she doesn’t contact my father. Why do you think I bought it for her?”
His unguarded eyes meet mine and I nod in understanding.
The warm touch of a muzzle on my fingers gets my attention, the whiskers ticklish. I pet the velvet soft skin between Missy’s nostrils and she nudges me back.
“Don’t we make a fine pair,” I say to myself more than anything.
“I think we do.” Dane’s voice is deep and clear, straightforward. It makes my heart race. It makes me want things, the very things I’ve been trying to avoid all my life.
My attention works back up to him. There’s a profound sincerity in his steady gaze. And maybe, just maybe, the promise of something more.
Chapter Seventeen
Stella
“Now this here picture…” Mr. Wylder lifts his reading glasses and squints.
We’re in the gigantic kitchen slash family room seated on the oversized distressed leather couches. Everything in this house is oversized––not only the men.
As soon as we brought Mr. Wylder home from the hospital, he made a beeline for the photo albums and called me over. I didn’t realize people still kept photo albums. Apparently this one does because he pulled out three of them. Judging by his colorful remarks of every picture he’s shown me, he’s taken it upon himself to embarrass Dane as much as possible. And truth be told, I can’t say I’m not enjoying it.
The object of ridicule is at present emptying the entire contents of the fridge because, God knows, he can’t go an hour without eating.
Mr. Wylder holds up a picture of a young boy, around five, wearing a straw cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and…nothing else. I’ve never seen a more even tan.
“This is the time…” He turns his attention to his son, whose expression can only be described as pained. I bite my bottom lip hard enough to almost break skin. “You remember, Dane? When I told you to stop playing with your pecker and then you went about tellin’ anyone that would listen that Woody Woodpecker was livin’ in your shorts. ’Member that?”
“You never let me forget it,” his surly son responds.
Mr. Wylder’s attention swings back to me, mischief written in the fine lines fanning out of the corners of his dark-blue eyes. “Asked the checkout girl at the supermarket if she wanted to see it. Played with his pecker all the time back then. Didn’t like to put no clothes on either. He was always takin’ ’em off––”
“For shit’s sake, Dad!”
“Time to cut back on the cussin’, Dane. Can’t be doin’ that around the baby.” Mr. Wylder winks and I laugh. A dimple pops up on his left cheek, along with a smile.
He turns the page and my eyes immediately go to a picture of the same young boy being held by a young blond woman. Tall, shapely, eyes like a cat. In her tight jeans and tank top, she’s more stunning than any supermodel.
“Hmm,” Mr. Wylder says while his smile slowly melts. “That’s Dane’s momma.”
He stares at the picture with undisguised longing.
“She’s gorgeous,” I gently offer.
“Hmm.”
“I can’t imagine any man not being taken with her.”
“And that there was the problem,” he quietly confides. He puts the picture back in the album and points the full force of his attention at me. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to know you’re in Dane’s life, Stella. Both you and the baby.”
My stomach sinks. There may as well be a neon sign above my head blinking, liar, liar, pants on fire, and an arrow pointing at me.
“If anything ever happens to me…” He clears his throat while mine begins to close, crammed with guilt. “His sister’s got a family. I don’t want––” He huffs out, clears his throat again. “I don’t want him to wind up like me…you know, alone.”
Throat swelling, eyes brimming with tears, I fight the urge to lower them in shame. I like this man. I really like him. The thought of betraying his trust kills me.
“I worry about him,” Mr. Wylder admits, hiding his discomfort behind a weak smile. “I’m glad he’s found someone that genuinely cares for him and not all the other nonsense, if you get my meanin’.”
Peering thoughtfully into my eyes, he pats my knee twice and stands. “What are we havin’ for dinner?” he asks his son.
“Shit on a shingle,” says the chef.
“Well…can’t say I haven’t had that before,” Bill mutters back.
Oblivious to the quiet conversation that happened a moment ago, Dane looks up from whatever he’s dicing or cutting or preparing. As soon as his gaze settles on me, he frowns.
“I need some air,” I mutter and make a swift exit without waiting for a reaction or a reply.
With Tinker as my escort, I march out of the front door and step into magic hour, the sky painted in jewel tones, the temperature already cooling as the sun gets ready to set in the distance. The hollow knock of boot heels against the wooden porch catches up with me. Low and behold, I have company.
“Stella.”
“I can’t do this.” Without a pause, I cross the gravel driveway on my way to the barn. “I feel gross lying to your father. I’m mortified of what he’ll think of me if he ever finds out. I should go back to New York.”
“You’re calling an audible now?!”
My feet skid to a stop, kicking up dust. Pivoting, I direct my confusion at the man who spoke. “In English would be good. Spanish works too.”
“You can’t leave me. Band of brothers!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We’re a team. No man left behind!”
“You’re getting weirder by the second. First, we’re not on the gridiron. And
second, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, it’s no child left behind. And you are no child––most of the time.” I mutter the last part, though judging by the v between his brows he heard me all the same.
“Birds of a feather stick together?”
“Dane––” I’m beyond exasperated. “Now is not the time for your antics.”
“Okay, look––” He turns serious in a heartbeat, shedding the mask that makes everyone believe he doesn’t have a care in the world. Taking hold of my arms, he pulls me closer. So close I’m forced to tip my head back to watch his face and I do nothing to stop him. Questionable decision but I’m chalking it up to being cold and seeking warmth.
His eyes bore into mine and I almost sway into him as a warm blast of body heat wraps around me. With it comes his scent. He smells so good it’s criminal. Like great sex and sunshine and laundry detergent. Or pheromones. Or whatever it is that turns smart, self-respecting women into sex starved nymphos. Dratted hormones. Freaking biological weapons.
“I’ve never seen him this happy.” As an opening gambit, it’s a pretty good one. One sentence and I’m already starting to go belly up. I can feel it. Shame on me.
“The last time I saw him remotely this happy was six years ago, when my sister had her daughter. Before that it was the Super Bowl and that was eight years ago. I’d like for it to last a little longer.” He breathes out a tired exhale, his concern-filled eyes holding mine captive. “Is that too much to ask?”
I can’t say no to him when he lays it on me like that. I can’t leave my man behind. Oops. Strike that, I can’t leave this man behind, this man. He’s not mine. I need to remember that.
I divert my line of sight over his shoulder but he won’t let me get away. He crouches, meeting me face-to-face.
“Don’t leave…please?”
It’s the supplicating look that fells me, the desperation in his voice. I can’t disappoint him. Not when he places himself at my mercy, making himself vulnerable in a way I’m sure almost never happens. In all likelihood if I were to let him down now, it would never happen again.
“I’m not leaving,” I mutter begrudgingly.
His expression softens with relief. Then he smiles, quickly reverting back to his usual cheerful self.
“Band of brothers?”
I laugh. It’s impossible not to around him. With an eye roll and a quick headshake, I say what must be said, “Birds of a feather stick together.”
Dinner was a team effort. Dane cooked stir fry chicken. I made the fresh guacamole and threw together a mixed salad. His father toasted the bread, and dinner was served. Levi, it seems, was to provide the entertainment. He walked in carrying a guitar.
“You play?” I ask him as the men finish clearing the table and I begin loading the dishwasher.
“Stella, you’ve got to hear my boy sing,” Bill tells me as he gets comfortable in his leather chair by the fireplace. “Most amazing voice––better than Vince Gill in my opinion.”