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“I’m okay, baby,” he tells me, catching my hand and squeezing it. “You coming over tomorrow night?”
“If you’re home, I’ll be there. If not, I’ll come see you here. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says.
“Okay, feel better, Dad.”
“Be careful with that guy, Hannah,” my dad warns as I reach the door. “I don’t want you mixed up in the kind of trouble he’ll be into.”
Armando may not have fought for me, but I don’t feel the same way. I turn back, defensiveness creeping up my neck. “He’s not into trouble. He literally just got out of prison and is trying to figure out how to live again.”
My mom’s eyes go soft, my dad’s mouth tightens. “Bring him to dinner tomorrow, so we can get to know him,” my mom suggests, and my dad shakes his head with that resigned sort of huff.
“I don’t think so,” I say, my heart sinking deeper into my belly. “But thanks. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
I leave the room and find Armando standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets looking sexy as hell. His face is that blank mask he always wears. I’m ready to be pissed, but then he opens his arms and folds me into them, and I let out an involuntary sob.
He combs his fingers through my curls and rubs the back of my head, and I melt into him, letting his strength sustain me.
He’s not my boyfriend, but in this moment, he’s enough.
He’s what I need him to be.
Chapter Eighteen
Armando
We drive back to the apartment in silence. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that Hannah is upset. This is one of those times where I don’t know how to do the relationship shit. Do I push her to talk? Or do I allow her to be quiet and alone with her thoughts? Finally, as we pull into the nearest parking spot, I turn off the van and reach for her hand.
“I’m sure your father is going to be just fine,” I try to comfort.
“He’s tough,” is all she says as she stares out the window, pulling her hand free from mine.
I take a deep breath. “Have I upset you?” It’s a stupid question. It’s clear that I have.
She shrugs. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know.” She turns her head and locks her eyes with mine. “Are you going to make me ask how you know my dad, or are you going to just offer that little bit of information?”
“We work at the same construction site,” I say.
“Construction? You go to work every day in a suit.” Her eyes narrow as she says the words.
“I oversee.” I’m trying to give her enough information to satisfy her, but I’m uncomfortable telling her anything at all. “I helped your dad get some time off to go to an appointment with his shithead boss, and we crossed paths that way.” I can see she’s analyzing every word I say. “It’s not like we really work side by side or anything.” I don’t want her thinking her dad is mixed up with the mafia or is keeping secrets from her.
Feeling I’ve said enough, I get out of the van, rush over to her side, and lead her upstairs hoping we can end this shitty day on a higher note. Or at the very least, we can crash and pretend it never happened.
Shadow greets us at the door, and I pick up the little fur ball, happy that someone in this room isn’t sour with me. I eye Hannah as she walks straight to the kitchen where she begins doing dishes right away. This isn’t Hannah. Not my Hannah.
“Okay, spill it,” I say, putting Shadow down after a couple scratches behind the ear. “Tell me what I need to do to cheer you up.”
“Nothing,” she says, running a wine glass under the water. “It’s been a long day.”
“Hannah,” I give my best warning voice. “I don’t like games.”
She turns off the water and faces me. “I don’t either.” There’s accusation oozing from her lips.
“I don’t play games either.”
She pauses, studies me, and then asks, “Do you know that I don’t even have your phone number?”
“Is that what has you so upset?” I reach for her phone. “Let me put it in for you.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t even know how to explain what we are to my parents.”
And there it is… something was said in that hospital room. I’d be a fool to think that nothing was. It was very obvious that Hannah’s father wasn’t pleased when he saw me.
“What do you want me to say?”
She crosses her arms against her chest. “Nothing, I suppose.”
“Are you unhappy?” I ask, hating to think I’ve truly upset this woman.
“No. I’m actually happier than I can ever remember being. But I’m also… confused.”
“How so?”
“One minute you are using words like ‘mine’ and being overly protective and possessive, and the next minute I’m realizing I know absolutely nothing about you. And then when it comes to defining us, I don’t even know how to begin. And then we spend all our evenings together like we’re a couple, and yet we aren’t—”
