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Emboldened, she lifted her chin a little, like she’d seen Shannon do when she was annoyed with Bryant. “Yes. Yes, you do. What do you want?”
“I owe you… a lot of things. An apology being the least of them. Will you come downstairs so we can talk about it over dinner?”
“No, thank you. I’d rather eat up here.” She just barely caught herself before tacking on the ‘If that’s alright with you’.
Shannon would be proud. So would Jeanine, come to think of it.
“Fair enough.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment, and a moment later he was gone, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall.
That was it? No fighting, no shouting, no name calling? He was really just going to leave her alone?
Why did that make her stomach revolt even harder when it was exactly what she’d wanted?
Ugh. Emotions were so freakingcomplicated.
She wished, desperately, she wasn’t locked in this prison with him. Although she didn’t have much experience in the matter, she imagined this was the type of situation where she would call her girlfriends and have them join her to bitch about their men together. She could tell them what an asshole Dean was being, and they could tell her she was perfectly justified in her anger. And maybe she’d forgive him, eventually, but only after she’d drowned her sorrows with plenty of junk food, wine, and sappy romantic comedies.
But she couldn’t even call them, not without risking another punishment. And her ass was still sore, though she thought it was mostly from having to sit on that stupid mat.
For the first time since she’d been whisked away to Dean’s fortress of a house, she wished she could just gohome.
She was still standing there, tiptoeing around the edges of despair, when the bedroom door opened again. Dean stepped through, pulling what appeared to be a wagon with cloth sides behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“You said you’d prefer to eat up here, so we’re going to eat up here.”
“That’s not what I—”
“The cart turns into a table. Watch.”
Completely ignoring her protests, he began pulling plates and glasses and a serving bowl from the wagon and setting everything to the side. She watched in silence as he transformed the odd little wagon into an elegant table for two.
Complete with twin white tapered candles.
It was almost… romantic.
The bean bag chairs he dragged from the sitting room were slightly less so, but somehow, they just made the whole scene even more perfect.
When everything was set up to his approval, he finally stopped to look at her, his eyes filled with an earnest plea that threatened to break down the walls she’d so carefully erected around herself. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d like a chance to explain. And apologize. For earlier.”
Her own curiosity, combined with his earnestness, eventually won out and she sank onto a bean bag chair with a sigh. “Fine. Explain.”
“Let’s start with the apology.” Popping the cork on a bottle of red wine, he poured them each a generous glass. “I was careless with you, and I’m sorry. I was… I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to have someone calling me Daddy again. But you didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m sorry I was an asshole about it. You didn’t deserve that.”
“No, I didn’t.” And wasn’t it a wonder she could look him in the eye and say that without feeling like she was going to vomit all over his pretty little table? Well, mostly anyway. Her stomach jumped a bit as the words left her mouth, but nothing like it would have even crossed her mind just a few days ago. “I was perfectly fine not using that term. But then you said it and I, obviously wrongly, assumed it was acceptable.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry, sweetheart. The only explanation I have is that I was so wrapped up in you it just sort of happened. But you’re right. I should never have used that term if I wasn’t ready for you to use it as well. It wasn’t fair to you and I’m so fucking sorry.”
Well, she couldn’t ask for more than an apology, right?
No. Fuck that. If she was going to have to navigate his feelings, then she deserved to know why.
“Apology accepted, I guess. If you’ll tell me about her.” When he froze, the wine glass halfway to his lips, she pushed, even though she already felt like she was about to jump out of her own skin. “Your wife. Olivia told me some about her. I’m assuming she’s the reason you’re not ready for all of”—she waved a hand between them—“this.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” His gaze shifted away from her face as he drained his glass. Silence stretched between them, so thick she swore she could feel it physically settling on her shoulders before he finally continued. “Her name was Annie. And she was the love of my life.”
It probably made her just as much of an asshole as him to be jealous of a dead woman, but the punch in the gut was there all the same. “What was she like?”
