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As I grab the phone to silence the ring, I see the number there and feel my face lose some of its color.
“Go ahead and take it, if you want to,” Nick says.
“No.” I shake my head as I send my mother’s call to voice mail. “It’s not Tasha.”
“Oh,” Nick replies. His level tone is unreadable, but his face darkens with suspicion. “Do I have to be concerned about another man?”
“What? No.” I frown, shaking my head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Good.” He doesn’t smile. Nor does he press me for more details.
Dammit, I should be thankful for that reprieve and go back to our conversation as if the call never happened. But for some reason—one I don’t care to examine—I feel compelled to let him peer inside my life, my real life, if only a glimpse.
I slide the phone back into my purse, then take a sip of my champagne. “That was my mom.”
His dark brows rise a bit. “You didn’t want to talk to her?”
“Not right now.”
He says nothing for a long moment. Then, when he does speak, his words seem to be chosen carefully, as if he senses that he’s treading on shaky ground. “You and your mother aren’t close?”
“We’re very close. I adore her.”
“But you haven’t told her about me.”
“No.” I set down my empty glass. Mindful of curious ears, I keep my voice quiet. “What would I tell her? That for the past several weeks, I’ve been sleeping with one of the richest men in New York—possibly the whole country? Or that I’ve just quit my job and now I’m sitting in Miami eating octopus and drinking champagne without a care in the world?”
Nick smirks. “I know a lot of enterprising mothers who would like nothing more than to hear those words.”
“Not my mother. She’ll think I’ve lost my mind—and maybe she’d be right about that.” I shake my head slowly. “If I tell her anything about us, it will only make her worry about me. I won’t do that.”
“Because you’re protective of her,” he says, directly hitting the mark.
“The same way she’s always been protective of me. She’s had a . . . difficult life. She still does. I try not to add to her burdens.” I glance down as I exhale and fidget with my hands in my lap. “My mom is all the family I have left.”
“I’m sorry.” I lift my head and find nothing but sincerity in his face. “I’m sorry if things haven’t been easy for you.”
His words touch me, cracking something open inside me that I can’t afford to let break. I shouldn’t let him see me so clearly. I shouldn’t want him to understand my pain, or the secrets I can never fully release. Not even to him.
“What about you, Nick? I don’t think your life has always been easy either.”
I can’t keep my gaze from drifting to his right hand and arm, to his scars. He’s wearing light tan slacks and a pale blue button-down, the cuffs rolled up over his muscular forearms. To anyone merely glancing at him, his imperfections are the last thing they’ll notice. But I’ve seen the evidence of his injuries. I know he suffered something awful—something brutal—at some point in his life.
When I glance back up to meet his eyes, they seem to have hardened somewhat. He lifts his shoulder, one corner of his mouth tugging into a mirthless smile.
“When I was eighteen, I had the bad sense one night to get in the way of a drunk who was spoiling for a fight. I thought I was a hardass. I thought I could handle the situation. The bastard sent me through a plate glass window. I woke up in the hospital a week later with a shredded arm and a nearly severed hand.”
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. “Oh, my God. Nick, that’s awful.”
He shrugs, yet there is something in his eyes that seems anything but nonchalant. “I survived. The scars are just a reminder of my stupidity and arrogance. Anyway, I doubt I could find many people to feel sorry for me now.”
I do, but I don’t say the words. I know he would reject my sympathy. He sure as hell doesn’t want pity. But my heart aches for what he must have suffered. The horror of the accident. The pain of the recovery. The permanent reminder of all of it.
I reach across the table and rest my hand over his damaged one. He doesn’t pull away, but the look he gives me is flinty and forbidding. It’s shuttered, as if he’s given me all he intends to right now and if I push, I’ll never hear anything more.
I’m spared from the temptation when our dinners arrive. They are every bit as delicious as our appetizer, and, for a while, Nick and I content ourselves with savoring our meals. Nick orders a bottle of white wine for us even though a quarter of the bottle of champagne still sits on ice in the bucket beside our table.
We chat about small things as we eat and drink our wine. To my delight, halfway through our meal, a five-piece Cuban band arrives and sets up nearby. I guess the youngest of the musicians to be in his fifties, with the rest of the group seeming at least a decade or two older than him.
