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“Did you speak with Tony?” my tío asks.
My gaze flickers to Asher, who has paused beside me. “Nope. And I don’t have any plans to either.”
Emotion flickers in my uncle’s dark eyes. He’s always been big on family and encouraged me to have more of a relationship with my father, but he needs to understand that it’s a two-way street. And I refuse to put myself out there to be hurt by a man whose love should have been unconditional from the beginning.
With a nod, he waves. “All right, mija. Have a good night.”
Relieved that he isn’t going to force the issue, my lips lift into a slight smile before we push out into the cold night air. Even though I’m wearing a coat, a chill slides through me. As I burrow into the cozy fabric, Asher throws a brawny arm around my shoulders and tugs me close.
Eyes widening, my gaze collides with his.
“What? You seemed cold.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, torn between escaping from his hold and burrowing against his brawny body, “but I’m good.”
Even though I don’t necessarily want to, I do the smart thing and pull away.
10
ASHER
It’s not exactly a shocker when she ducks out of my arms. What’s surprising is how much I enjoyed the feel of her tucked against me. As we cross the parking lot, the convo I’d just overheard circles through my head. It takes a handful of seconds to reach the truck. Once we do, she fishes the keys out of her bag and hands them over.
The question shoots out of my mouth before I can rein it back in. “Who’s Tony?”
Even in the darkness that surrounds us, the way her muscles stiffen is obvious.
When she doesn’t immediately respond, I click the locks and open the passenger side door. After she’s safely secured inside, I slam it shut and hustle around the hood before settling on the leather seat and pressing the button that ignites the engine. Her silence only piques my curiosity as I shift the truck into gear and back out of the space.
Since that question has gone unanswered, I ask another. “Do you live around campus?”
Her gaze flickers to me before she shakes her head and rattles off an address. “No, but it’s not too far from here.”
Huh. Almost everyone I know lives on or near the university. I didn’t realize she commuted. It only drives home the fact that I know very little about this girl.
Another silence descends before she admits, “Tony’s my father. Or, more accurately, my sperm donor."
My attention flickers to her, taking in the seriousness of her expression before resettling on the ribbon of road stretched out beyond the windshield. The tense exchange at the restaurant now makes more sense.
“Ouch.”
She jerks her shoulders. “It’s the truth.”
Even though she keeps her voice level, a hint of darker emotion mixed with hurt bleeds through. I know what it’s like to have parental issues. As much as I love my family, we definitely have our problems. That being said, I’ve never referred to my father as a sperm donor. That’s a level of contempt not easily attained. It’s tempting to reach out and wrap my fingers around her hand and offer a small bit of comfort, but it’s highly doubtful she’d be receptive to the physical contact.
My brain spins, trying to come up with something that will make the sadness lurking in her voice disappear. “I’m sorry.”
It’s a surprise when she adds in a softer voice, “He left when I was six and pretty much faded from my life. We haven’t been in contact for years.”
Wow. That really sucks.
Again, my gaze shifts to hers, attempting to get a read on her emotions. “Why do you think he’s reaching out now?”
“Honestly?” Her brow furrows. “I don’t know, and I really don’t care.”
We both fall silent as I turn off the main road and onto a side street before pulling in front of a modest ranch that sits on a tiny postage stamp of lawn. It can’t be more than seven or eight hundred feet in square footage.
Lola grabs her bag from the floor of the truck before opening the door and stepping onto the curb. I do the same, exiting the vehicle and coming around to join her with my backpack slung over one shoulder. I have no idea what to say—if anything—as we make our way up the thin concrete path to the front door.
She slips a key in the lock before twisting the handle and stepping inside. My gaze flies around the living room as I trail behind her. There’s a worn-looking sofa with a matching floral armchair, wood side table, and television crammed into the area. Even though it’s compact in size, everything is neat and tidy.
“It’ll be easier to work at the kitchen table,” she says, interrupting my perusal.
