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“And I still don’t think it’ll be a problem. If we decide to move forward, then we’ll tell him and see who’s right.”
He huffs out a reluctant chuckle. “I guess we will.”
“For the record,” I say with more confidence than I’m feeling, “I think it’ll be me.”
There’s a moment of silence before he murmurs, “I hope you’re right.”
Me, too.
My father has always had a soft spot for Mason, but I have no idea how he’ll feel about his only daughter dating an older man.
He slips his hand from beneath mine. Just as I mourn the loss of contact, he drops it over my smaller one. My pulse skitters as I stare at our clasped hands. There’s something about the rough callouses marring his palm that sends a shiver dancing down my spine. Mason has the hands of a man who uses them for a living. Not a college boy or someone who sits behind a desk in an office forty or fifty hours a week.
It's beyond sexy.
It takes ten minutes for us to reach the restaurant and another five before we’re shown to a table. I glance around, not recognizing anyone who looks to be my age. As we walk through the dining area, I can tell that Mason is also scoping out the situation, although he’s more covert about it.
As soon as we’re seated, a waitress stops by. He asks for whatever beer is on tap, and I order a glass of water. I see the exact moment the difference in our ages forces its way into his brain again.
“I forgot you’re not twenty-one yet,” he mutters, brows pinching together.
“Even if I were, I’d prefer water. I’m not much of a drinker.”
As soon as the waitress drops off our beverages, he lifts the glass to his lips and downs nearly half the golden liquid.
During the ride over, energy had snapped and crackled between us. Now, the atmosphere feels different. Awkward. Uncomfortable. If it continues, it’ll end up smothering whatever is attempting to flourish, and I don’t want that to happen.
Needing to get us back on track again, I say, “Did you realize that Anne is ten years younger than my father?”
The corners of his lips wilt. “That’s different. They’re much older.”
“True, but at some point, I’ll be older too, and it won’t be such a big deal.” I lean forward, closing as much distance between us as the table will allow. “You’re the only one who thinks it’s a problem.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
After the waitress takes our order—burgers and homemade chips for both of us—another silence descends.
“How long have they been married?”
“Almost ten years.” I add in case he doesn’t know, “My mother died of breast cancer when I was eight.”
Emotion flickers in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago, and for the most part, I’ve made my peace with it.”
“Both of my parents are gone, too,” he admits. The way he forces out the words makes me think they’re not easy to convey.
I nod. “Dad mentioned it.”
He shifts on his chair and glances away. “It’s been seven years. Sometimes, I can’t believe it’s been that long, and then other times, it feels like they’ve been gone forever, and I can barely remember when it was the four of us.”
The emotion seeping its way into his deep voice has my chest constricting. Not wanting him to feel so alone, I reach across the table and lay my hand over his. It feels good to offer solace and connect on a deeper, more meaningful level. Most people are so uncomfortable with the idea of death. They give you half-ass platitudes before quickly changing the subject and moving on to a more pleasant topic of conversation.
When he remains silent, I say, “Losing Mom was difficult. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose both my parents at the same time.”
The muscles in his throat constrict as he swallows. “It was hard. My life was totally upended. I had to drop out of school and get a full-time job in order to take care of my younger brother.”
I have to fight every instinct to rush around the table and pull him into my arms. My heart shatters for how quickly the man sitting across from me was forced into adulthood. That’s too much responsibility for any twenty-year-old to deal with.
