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“I never thought of you like that.”
Turning, he stares at me. “You had a pretty harsh opinion of me. You always have. Like everyone else.”
“That was mainly because of Brennon and the things you guys used to do,” I point out. “I never considered your father’s behaviour a reflection on you.”
His cheek moves as he bites his lower lip for a moment before he turns back around. My eyes flitter over the tiny scars across his back.
“Are they from him?” I ask. “Those scars?”
He twists, staring down at himself. They’re not super noticeable—unless you’ve dragged your tongue over them, like I have—but if you squint hard enough, you can see tiny pink and white lines over his smooth skin. “Some. Mostly from accidents.”
“What kind of accidents?”
“Falling out of trees, skateboarding, just being an energetic boy with no supervision.” He smiles. “I was in and out of hospital my whole childhood. I was on a first name basis with everyone. Even recently, when I was doing the rodeos.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever broken a bone.” I ponder, eyes drifting up to the ceiling, trying to recall.
“You never lived if you didn’t break a bone!” He mock-gasps.
“I fell off horses all the time. Sam has broken his arm three times, but I always managed to come out okay after a fall.” I shrug. “A few times I even landed on my feet.”
“That’s impressive. You used to compete, right?”
Nodding, I snag another grape from the bowl. “Yep. Dressage, jumping, camp drafting. The whole works.”
“I went to one of your competitions once.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“Before anything started with us. I was walking by the fields. It must have been a home base one. I saw you riding around. Never imagined years later you’d be riding me.” He grins wickedly as he says that last part and I blush, throwing a grape at his head. It bounces off his forehead and into his hand, which he throws easily into his mouth.
“You have a dirty mouth, Harley.”
“You love my dirty mouth.”
I roll my eyes. I can’t disagree.
He slides the pancakes onto plates and artfully adds golden syrup over the top of them.
“These look amazing. I can’t remember the last time I had pancakes.”
He slides a glass of orange juice towards me before sitting beside me on the other stool.
“I used to make these for my mum all the time. After her and Dad would have a big fight. We’d sit in their bed and watch movies. It was called Pancake Day.”
“That’s sweet.” I smile. “Are you and your mum close?”
“She died two years ago.”
The fork slips from my hand, clattering onto the bench. I gape at him, wide-eyed.
“Your mum died two years ago?” I whisper.
“Aneurism. Three months or so after Elise died.”
Placing my hand over my mouth, I blink at him. “Oh my God, Harley. I had no idea.”
“How could you?” he asks quietly. “You weren’t here.”
