Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)
His hair is still damp from a recent shower, nearly pitch black. And those lashes…gawd, those lashes are cruel. How does a dude get lashes like that when the rest of us are forced to wear mascara? Lit by the overhead light, they throw shadows on his model worthy cheekbones. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. The scruff covering his lower face, heavy and dark, frames his full pink lips.
I think he knows I’m looking at him. And the funny thing is––I think he’s letting me. In a spell, I murmur, “What are you doing here?”
“When you didn’t come home, I thought I’d check to see how your father was doing.” Perfectly relaxed, his attention returns to the television on the wall, on which a rerun of The Golden Girls is playing. “How is he?”
“They ran the tests. We won’t know anything until we speak to the doctor tomorrow.” I exhale heavily, concern weighing on me. “He’s sleeping now.” At this, he nods. “Are your parents still in Florida?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I know how closely he guards his privacy but I can’t resist. I want to know more about what makes him tick. I want to know so much more.
He turns to look at me. A long pause ensues. “They both passed away. My mother when I was at Florida State, and my father a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry…do you mind if I ask how?”
“My mother had cirrhosis of the liver. My father car accident…I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.” An overwhelming urge to grip his hand and comfort him comes over me. Obviously that’s out of the question, so I tuck both hands under my thighs. I literally have to sit on my hands to stop from embarrassing myself. “Ready to go home?”
At my nod, he stands and holds out a hand. As soon as I place mine in his, warmth spreads all the way up my arm. Pulling me up, I feel a brief squeeze before he drops it.
“What about the Yukon?” I mention as we’re exiting the building.
“I’ll drop you off tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll take Uber.”
“The hell you will.” He opens the passenger door of the Range Rover and waits as I slide in.
“Excuse me?” On his face, I find a decidedly recalcitrant expression. Hmm. I wiggle my brows at him. Anything to throw off his game because that look does not bode well for me. God forbid Calvin Shaw sets his mind on something. For my efforts, I get nothing. Not even a twitch of his lips.
“I’m not having a total stranger drive you.”
He’s not having it? That’s…I don’t even know what that is. “How is that different from a cab driver?”
“I’m dropping you off.” He starts the car and taps on his playlist. George Strait starts to sing Give It All We Got Tonight. End of discussion. Might as well save my breath.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, I have every intension of calling Uber and sneaking out. Until I step into the kitchen and my plans are smashed to bits by the very determined man standing in the kitchen drinking a green smoothie.
“Ready?” he asks with a slight lift of his lips.
“As soon as you wipe the smug look off your face, Champ.”
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the hospital entrance. I turn to speak but he beats me to it. “Don’t worry about Sam. Mercedes and I will take care of him today,” he says, rubbing his big hand on his thigh. He’s not done surprising me though. “Call me as soon as you have some news.”
A hot chunk of emotion clogs my throat. I don’t know why I have a sudden urge to cry. I’m not a crier by nature. You would think all the shit that’s happened to me lately would cure me of it. Battling the dampness welling in the corners of my eyes, I stare ahead and say, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. His hands, on the outskirts of my vision, tighten on the steering wheel. I know I’m making him uncomfortable, but if I don’t get this out now, I’ll regret it forever. And I’m done with regrets––all stocked up here.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, okay. These last three years have been horrible. Sometimes it feels like the whole world is against me. And you…” The words get caught in my throat. I can’t look at him, I’ll erupt if I do. “I’ve learned the hard way not to put off saying stuff…that I might not get another chance.” With that, I rip open the door and get out without a backward glance.
By the time I reach my father’s room, the doctor has already paid them a visit. I find my mother sipping coffee in the armchair next to his bed, and my father wearing a sullen expression I’ve never quite seen on him before.