My filter is nonexistent when I’m stressed like this.
Brows arched, he slowly drops into a squat, the move controlled and measured. With his elbows resting on his knees, he relaxes his wrists, making his hands hang loose between his thighs, giving me the perfect view of those damn veins again.
“Did you fall?” he asks. “Any chance you hit your head?”
I frown. This man’s got the concerned dad routine down; I’ll give him that.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” He’s holding up three fingers. Three deliciously long, thick fingers. Without my permission, my attention zeroes in on them and my tongue darts out, wetting my lips.
With a harsh breath in, I squeeze my eyes closed. Holy shit, I’m a mess. What is with my lack of discretion today?
“I’m not hurt,” I assure him, forcing the surprisingly steady words out.
Not physically, at least.
“I didn’t hit my head,” I say. “And I didn’t fall. I just needed to regroup.”
Disbelief dances behind those rich, bottomless eyes. “Your idea of regrouping involves lying on the ground?”
I shrug, the move causing the warm concrete to scratch my shoulder blades through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. Fighting a wince, I say, “The ground is great for regrouping. Or for when you need to change your perspective. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He shifts, his form casting a long shadow over my body and providing temporary respite from the blinding sun.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to stand and walk away. Or yell at me to leave.
Instead, he takes a knee, then lowers to the driveway beside me.
He grunts a little as he curls down and lies flat on his back.
Wait.
What?
Lips pursed and my mind swimming in a cloudy haze of confusion,I shield my eyes again and turn my head, taking in his profile from this angle.
He turns, like he can sense my scrutiny, and meets my gaze. Then he offers a defensive shrug, muttering, “You said I should try it.”
I stifle a laugh, both embarrassed by my meltdown and amused by his decision to join me.
I should be more than just embarrassed. I should be mortified. This serious, put-together man is lying on his driveway in the middle of the day because of me. But honestly, I’m all out of humiliation.
We coexist for a few beats, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest I worry he can hear it.
Breaking the silence, he finally asks, “What now?”
This time, I do let out a little laugh.
What now?Is he actually asking for instructions on how to crash out?
“Um, this is kind of it,” I admit. “Although sometimes it helps if I air my grievances.”
Today is not one of those days, though. No way will I broadcast the grudges and frustrations I’m holding on to where Luca is concerned. One, because it’d be weird to tattle on a grown man to his father, and two, because I really don’t need to spiral any more than I already am.
Alaric hums quietly. The pensive, patient sound catches me off guard. At best, I expected annoyance from him. It would make more sense for him to rant about how my fucked-up life isn’t his problem. Luca could never stand when I did something he deemed distracting or uncouth. His nickname for me was Queenie, a variant of drama queen.
He loathed this side of me. That should have been my first red flag, because this unmasked version is as real as it gets.
With a sigh, he murmurs, “I might be fucking this up before I even have a shot at getting started.”
