"That's cool," I said softly. "I'm glad he saved your mom."
"Me too."
I lowered my gaze to his glass. "What are you drinking?"
"Macallan scotch. Strong stuff. And expensive."
"Can I try it?"
He cocked a brow, looking from me to the glass. I could tell he wanted to say no, but instead he lifted it up and handed it to me. This was my pity drink from him to me. I didn't care. I wanted it.
"A little," he said, "and only because I don't know how else to make you feel better right now."
I accepted it, taking a sip. It was strong and burned my throat, but also seemed to soothe the fire in my veins. I took another big sip, and then two bigger gulps.
"Kandy, come on," he grumbled, taking the glass away from me. He looked at the nearly empty glass, sighing and picking up the decanter of scotch from the table. He topped off his glass again, keeping it to himself this time.
"I'm scared, Cane," I confessed after a brief silence. "I don't want him to die."
"He won't," he said, cut and dry.
I laughed a little, but it hurt, and my eyes welled up.
"What?" he murmured.
"I don't know. It's just…funny. I always saw my dad as this hero, you know? Like a man who could take on anything, even bullets. Kind of like my own superhero. Nothing is ever supposed to hurt him. In my mind, he's this indestructible man who will always protect and save me. Live forever."
Cane huffed a small laugh. “Yep, I know. He talked about that a lot. He told me once that he used to have you call him Mr. Strong-O.”
A giggle bubbled out of me. Cane chuckled.
“Yeah…I remember that.”
We both went quiet again. It was a long silence, but far from uncomfortable. I dropped my legs and pressed my back into the cushion, shutting my eyes. I felt tears building back up again, burning behind my eyelids.
"Can you distract me, please?" I begged, voice cracking. "I can't—I mean, I just don't know what else to do—shit." The tears dripped, despite my eyes being sealed.
"Stop crying, Kandy. Please," he pleaded when I pressed my palms to my face. "I'm not good with tears. Never have been."
"Yeah," I huffed, swiping hard at my face. "I can see that."
He reached up and ran the pad of his thumb over my cheek, brushing a teardrop away. I avoided his eyes.
"Look at me," he murmured.
But I couldn't. Looking at him would have made me cry even harder.
"Look at me, Bits."
I swallowed hard, pulling my gaze up, and locking eyes with him. His hand was still on my cheek, his eyes swimming with a mix of sincerity and grief. He stroked the apple of my cheek.
"What do you want me to do to make you feel better?" he asked, voice low, deep, and husky. He studied my face, like he really wanted to know what could help.
I couldn't speak as he looked at me. Couldn't breathe. I smashed my lips together, my eyes dropping down to his hands. I knew exactly what I wanted.
I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to keep telling me everything was going to be okay while he stroked my hair and held me close, wrapping me up in his big, strong arms.
But I knew he couldn't do that, so instead I said, "Just…hold me, I guess?"
He didn't hesitate much. He wrapped his arm around me as I hooked one of mine behind his back. He pulled me into him until my cheek was pressed on his chest. It was then that I noticed he wasn't wearing a suit or dressy clothes. He wore a solid gray T-shirt and jeans. It was the most casual thing I'd ever seen him wear.
His chin dropped down on the top of my head, and a hard sigh escaped him. I rested my other arm on top of his lap to get more comfortable, sighing from how calming this actually was. I was wrapped around him, the left half of my face pressed on his chest. He smelled so good. Manly and delicious. I wanted to bury my face into his hard, chiseled body and breathe him in forever.
He lifted his glass and sipped, longer this time.
All I heard was his throat working with each sip he took. The ice clinking around in the glass. I stared at the fireplace to distract myself.
When his glass was empty, he sat forward a bit to place it down on the coffee table, but kept me secure in his arms. When he sat back again, I tilted my head up to look at him.
"Are you scared?" I whispered, catching his eyes.
"Yes."
"You don't seem like the type to get scared."
"When it comes to the people I care about getting hurt, I do."