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“I have, and you’ve been on me.”
He has a point.
“Good, so you’re hungry, too,” I say, standing up naked. “How about you find the nearest diner and take me out?”
“How about I put a biscuit on each of your tits and eat them off?”
How does he say shit like that with a straight face? Our gazes lock, then his eyes glitter, and we both laugh.
“Fuck you,” I say, turning on my heel and heading into the bathroom.
“Fuck you too, sweetheart,” he calls. “I like seeing that ass go, but don’t be gone long.”
When I get back, freshly showered and in my shortest pair of shorts because I love it when he looks at me like he’s starving. He’s made more coffee and heated some breakfast, all piled on the same plate. Sitting cross-legged, I start picking at a biscuit. He goes in the bathroom and comes out in his sweats, the ones that look so good on him I can’t help but take a peek beneath his waistline. Then, he sinks against the headboard. His phone goes off, but he ignores it.
“So, you miss home at all?” he asks, reaching for some bacon.
I shrug, then nod. “I miss Sabrina a lot.”
“Not your dad?”
Guilt twinges beneath my ribs. “Yeah, I do. He’s in Portland.”
He studies me for a bit. “You girls got a complex relationship with him, huh?”
“Are you my therapist?”
“Serena, cut that the fuck out.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
He gives me a stern look that melts my anger and, maybe, makes my panties a little wet. “You don’t have to kick and fight every time I ask you something personal.”
“Well, you’re not exactly opening up, either.”
He taps beneath my chin with the side of his finger. “Alright, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Fine. Yeah, we don’t have a great relationship with him. It’s not that we don’t love him; it’s that he can be kind of difficult. You know why my parents divorced, right?”
He shrugs. “I don’t remember a lot, even though I came around as a kid…before Dad died. I had a lot of my own shit going on.”
“Well, he cheated on Mom,” I say. “And…to his credit, he regretted it forever. But that doesn’t mean I forgive him for fucking up our family.”
“But you picked growing up with him.”
“Yeah, I did because Sabrina did,” I say, trying to ignore the wriggle of pain. “For most of my life, I did what Sabrina did because I was trying to be good, stay out of the way.”
He’s thoughtful, brow creased. “You like growing up on the ranch?”
“I did,” I say slowly. “But I also wish I’d grown up with Mom.”
“You like the country, though,” he points out.
I think about the ranch, the hills, the mountains in the distance with their wispy clouds. About the coast of Maine, without a house in sight. About this little cabin where the grass ripples like the ocean when the wind hits it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I really do. If I could have picked, I’d have grown up with Mom and Dad and Sabrina, in a house like this.”
He touches my thigh, running his fingers over my bare skin. I wait, wondering if he’ll speak. Finally, he clears his throat. “I was still a kid when Dad died. Mom was already gone. My aunt took me in after that.”
