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Panic wraps around my shoulders, tightening, squeezing at his reminder that I angrily shared more than intended.
He’s not supposed to remember.
To bring it up.
To ask.
I lift my chest from the board, ready to push off, but his leg meets mine, his shin gliding across my skin.
Something in his gaze holds me still, but my throat remains thick, my mind guarded, though my mouth decides to open, a low ‘no’ leaving me.
It’s the truth.
I haven’t, but I have wondered that if something were to happen, how long it would take my mom to notice—probably whenever the next Sunday rolled around. I wonder if I would be missed, truly missed, for me, not for what’s needed of me.
Monti would miss me, wouldn’t she?
A pontoon boat blaring Taylor Swift cruises by, the wake wobbling the board beneath us, and snapping me from my thoughts.
I sit up, swing a leg over and straddle the board, glaring at Ransom who still has his head rested on his hands, eyes on mine, though they did flick to where my swimsuit bottoms have met the hard epoxy.
“Who was it?” he asks, guessing when I don’t answer. “Your bio-mom or bio-dad?”
Angry, I set it straight. “My dad.”
“She kept his name, didn’t she?” He eyes me, a tortured look in his. “Filano was his last name?”
“She made her name as a Filano, she had to keep it.” I frown, a deep twist behind my ribs. “Why?”
“That’s why you’re so quick to help her, to be what she wants. To help hold on to the name. To your dad’s name.”
“No, it’s not.” My spine shoots straight. “I didn’t know the man; all I know is he was weak. Why would I care?”
“You try not to care, period, because of what he did, but even cutting off your emotions can’t erase the fact that your name is the only piece of him you have. You want to hold on to it.”
My stomach leaps then drops. “What are you doing?” I snap.
He pushes up, confused, so I clear it up for him. “You’re asking questions you shouldn’t.”
His eyes narrow. “And why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
He lifts, swinging one leg over, so he’s straddling the board, the paddle laying across his lap. “So, you don’t understand.”
My head pulls back. “I don’t want to understand. I want you to stop talking, or better yet, start talking.”
He raises a brow.
“Why did you help me the night I wrecked my car?” I put him in the hot seat. “You were angry because you thought I was drinking and driving, but you could have gotten caught, gotten yourself in trouble. Still, you fixed my problem. Why?”
“Who else was going to?”
“No one.” I shoot back instantly, leaning forward. “That’s sort of the point. It’s no one else’s job.”
“So, I should have let the girl who doesn’t live in order to keep a low profile drop when I had the power to hold her up?”
My chest tightens and I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have been around to have to do either.”
“But I was. I was there when you crashed physically, and I was there when you crashed mentally.”
I clench my teeth together, my jaw muscles aching from the contact.
The club.
“Who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t followed you that night.”
I scoff. “I probably would have fucked someone else on the hood of their car.”
His face hardens. “That’s not fucking funny.”
“It’s not supposed to be. It’s the truth.” Maybe, I don’t know, but I shrug anyway. “Why did you follow me? Why do you follow me?”
“I told you before. We’re protective of the things we want.” He glides closer on the board, frustration building behind his light eyes. “I am protective of the things I want.”
My mouth runs dry, but I refuse to swallow while he’s so close, staring so intently. Waiting for a sign I heard him, for a sign I ‘understand,’ knowing I’m sitting here, forced to face his words, head-on.
He’s protective of the things he wants.
Ransom Rossi wants me.
Sure, he doesn’t indulge when his sexy time playmates aren’t in on it, but group play or not, he’s had me, has he not?
In his hands, at his will...
What more is there?
Nothing that you can give, Jameson.
A softness flickers across his face and he reaches out, his knuckles trailing over my swim top.
“Ransom...” I don’t mean to whisper, but that’s how his name leaves me.
His knuckles continue their way along the seam of my suit.
“You know nothing lasts forever, right? That wanting and having has nothing to do with keeping? Protective or not.” Possessive or not.
That’s what his touch is.
Possessive.
Claiming.
Calming.
His thumb comes up, gliding along my jaw, my lower lip, where it presses gently.
I swallow.
“My world, it’s different than yours.”
His eyes lift to mine, and I nearly stop breathing when he whispers, “Is it?”
