“Wait, what? You think he’s going to come after you? Why would he do that?”
“Because he gets his self-worth from being richer and tougher than anyone else. His ego isn’t going to let him walk away and forget it.”
She frowns. “I deal with assholes like that at my club all the time. They usually brush it off.”
I tap the side of my bowl, trying to put into words how dicks like him think. “It’s different, Cara. When a guy like that gets shot down by a woman? He might not like it, but it’s easier for him to brush it off, call you a cunt and move on to his next target. It doesn’t hit him at the core. Backing down from another man? That’s not going to sit right. The only variable is if he works up the nerve to do something about it or not. But this,” I say, waving my hand at the people laughing and eating around us, ”Is going to make it harder for him to walk away."
“Because of the audience?”
“Yeah. It’s not like he can leave this place and never have to look at these people again. We’re stuck here. And that’s going to grate on him.”
“So what do you think he’ll do?” Her fingers are nearly white around the spoon clutched in her hand.
“I don’t know, Cara. Honestly. But I’d rather be prepared and anticipate his attack than be caught unaware. I can handle him, I swear. I’m just being careful.”
She glances over at them, then blows out a breath. “Okay. So we just watch him. Pay attention, and see?”
“Yep. Now can I please eat my food? I’m dying.”
She laughs and lets it drop, thankfully. We dig in, chatting and laughing, for way too long. The people camping out here are mostly asleep, tucked into their sleeping bags or booths. Grace, still looking thrilled with all the company, is moving tirelessly around the bodies.
“I wonder what her life is like? Not during storms, but just everyday life?” Cara’s leaning against my arm, eyes at half-mast.
“I don’t know. She looks so happy, doesn’t she? Like running around taking care of this many people just lights her up.”
“Yeah, she does. This town is so tiny and off the main road, I can’t see it ever being this busy normally. It’s like she’s exactly where she wants to be and wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Do you think you could say the same?” Would I? Knowing I’d end up here, in this bar with Cara, would I change anything about my past? Nah.
Cara hums, frowning. “Sometimes. I wish my mom and dad hadn’t died. Bree could have finished high school, and I would’ve stayed at university. Maybe gone to grad school.”
“How did your parents die?”
“Just back luck. They got in an accident on a busy highway.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Cara. That’s how Jonas and Zach lost their parents, too.”
“I know. It happens too often.” She looks up at me, her hair a golden halo, lit by the light over our table. She’s so beautiful. And technically this is our second date, so holding my breath, I make my move. I gently shift her, pulling my arm out to wrap around her shoulders. Maybe that was too forward? I could have faked a yawn and a stretch, but even for me, that feels too corny. She just smiles and tucks herself closer to me, resting a hand on my chest. Her warmth carries through my sweater, but I wish I wasn’t wearing it and that only the thin layer of my t-shirt separated us.
“What happened to your family?” she asks softly.
“I have no idea. I was left at a fire station when I was two. I don’t know who left me there or why.”
“Declan,” she murmurs, eyes sympathetic. She presses her cheek against my shoulder. She’s beautiful, but the sympathy is unnecessary.
“It’s okay, Cara. I didn’t know any different growing up.”
“Did they try to find them? Did you? You must have the skills to figure it out?”
“No, there was no clue. There are a lot more cameras around now. It’s harder for parents to just disappear. But the fire stations have always been a safe, no questions asked place to take kids. It’s better than dumping them on the side of the road.” Kids aren’t things to be disposed of, but unfortunately, it happens a lot.
She frowns. “Doesn’t it bother you? Not knowing?”
“It used to. I used to wonder who they were and make up these elaborate stories about why they left me. I used to wonder what I’d done to make them leave. But not anymore.”
“Why not anymore?”
I shrug, running my fingers up and down her arm, remembering the years of wondering and wishing. “Reality is, my parents were probably pretty messed up to leave me. I didn’t have things easy, but I was fed every day, and I had my own bed to sleep in at my foster homes. I didn’t get beaten or starved regularly like some of my brothers. The alternative could have been so much worse. The what if ’s would make you crazy if you let ‘em.”
