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“No,” she said. “Yes. I mean… I just know what that feels like. When I was married to Adam, I didn’t feel like I had a home either. I mean, I’d decorated the place and stuff, but it’s hard to feel comfortable when you’re analyzing every move someone makes, every word they say, wondering if they’re going to blow.”
I’m going to tear Adam Bishop apart one day. I’m going to do it with my bare hands. I’m going to show him what pain — real pain — feels like.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his anger. He’d learned the hard way that his pathological fury wasn’t considered normal by most people.
“It’s okay. Live and learn.” She set her glass on the coffee table and turned to pull her feet under her body.
He reached for her legs and lifted her feet onto his lap, then started to peel off her socks.
“Hey!” she said, pulling away. “What are you doing?”
“Rubbing your feet,” he said. “You deserve it after the day you’ve had.”
“I hate my feet,” she said.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, pulling her feet back onto his lap. “Every inch of you is perfection.”
She settled uneasily into the cushions, resting her head against the arm of the sofa as he started to rub.
“Hmmm,” she said as he pressed against her arches. “That feels good."
“I’ve never thought much about home, to be honest,” he said. “My parents’ house is big and formal. I think I just always assumed houses were for show. That they were there to convey something about the person who lives there.”
“What does this place say about me?” she asked. “About Olivia?”
He looked around as he rubbed. The room was cast in the glow of the table lamp, a string of white lights wound through some kind of tall treelike houseplant in the corner. Books lined the shelves behind photographs and a bin filled with Olivia’s toys sat on the floor near the window.
A coloring book and open pack of crayons sat on the coffee table along with a worn book of poems by Neruda.
“It says you like to be comfortable,” he said. “You want a place to set down your coffee or wine. A blanket to keep you warm while you nap. And you want other people to be comfortable too.”
“Keep going.” She sounded sleepy and when he looked over at her he saw that her eyes were closed.
He pressed on the ball of one foot, then the other, and scanned the room. “It says you like taking care of things — your plants, your daughter — and that you’re good at doing it. It says you like to read, but you don’t have as much time for it as you used to because you like to share things with your daughter — movies, trips to the park, ice cream, days at the museum.”
“That’s all true,” she said softly. “Especially the part about not having as much time as I used to.”
“Most of all, it says you love your daughter,” he said. “That you’d do anything for her. That you want her to feel happy and safe. That she does even when you don’t.”
She didn’t say anything, and he looked over and found her eyes still closed, her breath settled into a slow and steady rhythm.
He eased up on her feet and waited for her to move, but after a couple of minutes he realized she’d fallen asleep. She looked so young in her sleep and he realized he’d never even asked her age.
It didn’t matter.
She’d let him into her life and now he never wanted to leave.
The timing was terrible. Once he confronted his father, he would have to stay away from Ruby and Olivia for their own safety. Then he would have to explain to Ruby about his family.
His business.
The thought made him uneasy. Ruby was still hurt by the loss of her mother. How would she feel when she found out Roman was a member of the organized crime syndicate that had been the agents of her death?
He looked at her face, her long lashes and soft cheeks, the perfect bow of her mouth. She looked sweet and vulnerable in her jeans and sweater, her small bare feet still in his big hands.
He wanted to be inside of her again, to take her back to his loft where he had toys so they could really play.
But he also wanted to hold her. To keep her safe.
