Page 76 of Just Wait

He slides his palms down my arms, cupping my hands, and my eyelashes flutter.

Leaving my cardigan at the table was an excellent call.

Kincaid is always serious and commanding. It’s surprising that he’s also affectionate. Okay, this might not qualify as affection, but he is more touchy-feely than I expected when I met him.

The basketballs fall, and he guides me to pick one up. My head rests back against his chest as I toss the ball at the net.

It misses, but it gets closer than I did when I was trying alone.

He leans with me as I grab a second ball, taking another shot. This one hits the rim, and I grin, picking up another ball.

“All right,” he says as we work together to try to get more points. “What was I saying before we got distracted?”

“About your family,” I remind him.

We were lamenting our shitty home lives while growing up. It’s crazy to realize that he grew up less than an hour away from where I did. While I spent most of my childhood in St. Pete and Clearwater, he was right over the bridge in Tampa.

“Right,” he says gruffly. “My grandmother was amazing. I miss the hell out of that old lady. After she died, I got the hang of looking out for myself. My dad sold her house, and rather than putting any aside to help me pay for college, he and my mom blew it all on drugs.”

He shrugs, patting my hand.

I jolt.

Shit.

I froze while he was talking, and I only have the chance to throw one more ball before the game shuts off.

“It wasn’t a big deal. I wouldn’t have done well in college, anyway.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Want to keep trying with this one or move to another game?”

“Let’s try something else. That way, I might have a chance at beating you.” I grab the bucket of tokens.

“Uh-oh.” Kincaid booms a laugh. “Are you competitive, Lumen?”

I laugh as we make our way down the row of games. “Not usually, but I can’t let you destroy me at everything.”

We settle on air hockey, and I pick up the wand.

Goalie?

I’ve heard it called both.

Whatever the handheld thingy is called, I pick it up and the game starts.

“My dad told me that he had a college fund set aside for me,” I say, slamming the puck back toward Kincaid. “Once I graduated, that money was nowhere to be found. Not that I was shocked. I worked through most of high school to buy my own clothes, piano lessons, and school supplies. He wasn’t abusive or anything… Just more unreliable, I guess.”

“It was only you and your dad?” he asks.

I nod, slamming the puck back. “My mom left when I was about to turn thirteen. She couldn’t handle his drinking or the constant cheating while he was on the road.”

I miss blocking in time, and Kincaid scores. I grab the puck and put it back on the table.

“What kind of work did he do?”

“He was a musician.” I laugh a little hysterically. “Not anyone you would know, but it mostly paid the bills. He played at some festivals and state fairs—that kind of thing. He moved to bars, clubs, and lounges when my mom left because he needed to be around to make sure I made it to school.”

At least he stuck around and tried. Despite all his faults, I’ve never been able to forget that.

“Jesus, have you talked to her since?” he asks, not bothering to hit the puck.