Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart 3)

Acting like a punk who didn’t give a fuck.

It couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Time to man up because there would be no avoiding them any longer.

Benjamin slanted me a wayward smile before he turned around and started toward the door, a whole ton slower than Dillon had gone.

Izzy stepped up behind him, her footsteps slow and tentative. At the doorway, the girl stopped and tipped that gorgeous gaze back at me.

Waiting.

An uncertain invitation on her face.

I forced myself to just . . . move.

To beat down the age-old insecurities. To ignore the scars that felt like they’d been ripped open wide.

Raw and bleeding.

I bypassed Izzy who held open the door. When I did, our arms brushed.

Fire spread.

She sucked in a breath, and my spine went rigid.

God. That was going to be a problem.

The attraction that blazed, barely contained.

Doing my best to ignore it, I stepped the rest of the way into the kitchen and right into the middle of the chaos going down.

AKA: Dillon.

He was running circles around the gigantic island, flapping his arms, shouting the whole way, “Nana, that smells so good. I want all the potatoes. Wait, did you make potatoes? And gravy? You can’t have potatoes without gravy. That’s a rule, right?”

He didn’t even slow for her response, diverting paths and clambering onto a chair at the table where Izzy’s father was reading the paper. He leaned on his forearms, getting right up in the old man’s face. “Right, Grand-Pop? No gravy—no good, baby.”

The old guy grunted, lowering his paper an inch to look at Dillon from over the top.

He was doing his best to front annoyance, but there was no missing the affection swimming in his eyes. “Whatever happened to kids eating what was put on the table in front of them?”

“That’s called old-fashioned, Grand-Pop.”

“Old-fashioned, huh? Nothing wrong with that.”

“You shush, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” Mrs. Lane was saying with a chuckle from where she had her back to everyone, whipping something that no doubt was going to be delicious in a bowl.

My mouth watered just thinking about it.

“I finally get the chance to spoil my grandbabies, you can bet your bottom I’m gonna do it.”

“I’ll bet my botttttom,” Benjamin added in that voice that twisted through me with a force unlike anything I’d felt before.

Razor-sharp or a caress, I wasn’t sure. Only thing I knew was it cut me wide open.

Another grunt from the old man who still had his face buried in the paper.

That was right before awareness spread.

Thick and hot and clammy.

In discomfort, I shifted on my feet, sucking in a steeling breath when the door stopped its slow sway behind us, the stillness casting us in a spotlight.

No longer able to hide.

Izzy’s father slowly dropped the paper and pinned me with a glare, eyes dark and narrowed.

If looks could kill and all of that.

Or maybe he was just calculating how fast he could get to his gun.

End the threat he was viewing me as right then and there.

Had never had the courage to talk to him after what had happened. He had to think I was a complete asshole.

Wouldn’t be that far off base.

I roughed a hand through my hair, itching in the tension that bounced from the walls, gaining speed with each pass.

Mrs. Lane clearly felt it, too, because she slowed her mixing and shifted around. Her eyes softened, and my heart squeezed in the middle of my chest.

“Why, it’s Maxon Chambers,” she mused. Her expression twisted in something I couldn’t quite read.

I wasn’t sure how the hell I was supposed to stand under the scrutiny.

Welcoming the judgment because God knew I’d earned it.

“That’s Mack to his friends, Nana,” Dillon piped in from the table. “Unless you’re a special friend like Mom. Are you a special friend, too?”

Izzy choked at my side.

Mrs. Lane busted up laughing, and Mr. Lane grumbled something that sounded a whole lot like, “Special friend, my ass,” under his breath.

Izzy cleared her throat. “Mama, Daddy . . . I’m sure you remember Maxon?” She peeked over at me when she said it, redness still lighting on those cheeks.

Girl trying to be a proper hostess in the middle of what had to be the most uncomfortable situation either of us had ever found ourselves in.

You know, since I was only a friend coming over for a friendly dinner.

“If only I could forget.” This from her father.

Apparently, I should have worn my bullet-proof vest. Hell, full on riot gear would have been safer with the way he was looking at me.

This was a man I respected fully. He was the first man I’d met who fit the image of what a father should be. Ian wasn’t the first man I’d thought deserved father of the year.

Loyal and protective. Loved his wife.

Playful, too.

Watching Izzy with a soft smile, losing his mind when she was doing something dangerous that she wasn’t supposed to do, but never in a million years would he lay a hand on her.