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“Do you love my mom?”
I coughed at the sudden inquisition. “Um … well …”
“Because she says she loves you, but I don’t hear you say it back to her.”
There was a protective quality in his tone. Like the way a father would question a man’s intentions with his daughter. And that was exactly what Noah was doing—figuring out what the hell I wanted from his mom. And who could really blame him? His mom didn’t have the greatest experience with men, and he wanted to make sure I wasn’t looking to be just another asshole, usingherand leaving once I had my fill—which was far from the truth.
I glanced at him, wearing an apologetic, embarrassed expression. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Sure.”
“I haven't said it back because I’m not sure I know what it feels like to love someone in the first place,” I admitted, feeling like an idiot, even as I threw the words out into the universe. “Like, Iwannabe sure before I go making declarations like that, you know what I mean?”
He hummed contemplatively, nodding his head like he understood. And, hey, for all I knew, maybe he did.
“I think love is when someone is more important in your heart than you are,” he said, speaking like a guy who did in fact know more on the topic than me.
“Huh,” I said, nodding. “That makes sense. You know, you’repretty smart.”
He shrugged nonchalantly, then asked, “So, do you think you love her?”
“Well, I mean, I would do anything for her—and you. So, I guess that makes herpretty important.”
“And do you think about her all the time? Because, like, this girl in my class—Beth … I know I love her because I think about her almost every minute of everyfreakin’ day.”
I turned with narrowed eyes. “Wait. You have a girlfriend?”
He sighed, a little forlorn, and shook his head. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“But you want her to be?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He groaned exhaustedly. “Stop changing the subject. Do you think about Mom all the time?”
I swallowed. “Every minute of everyfreakin’ day.”
“Well, there you go.”
I shifted my jaw, looking toward the horizon as an overwhelming urge came over me to walk down to the library and burst through the doors while declaring that I had apparently fallen in love for the first time in my life and I had needed a thirteen-year-old to make me realize it.
“Wow,” I uttered, full of clarity and awe.
“You should tell her.”
“Yeah …” I nodded, my stare blank and my heart hammering. “I think you’re right.”
“Then, you should get married so that you can be my dad.”
And there it was.
That was what this was truly all about.
He had felt betrayed by the knowledge of my crimes and couldn’t stomach the idea of wanting a cold-blooded killer for a father figure. He neededthe confirmationthat I wasn’t in fact a homicidal psychopath. He needed to know I was a good guy—for him and his mom. He’d needed to know I loved her, that I was doing right by her, and that I would do right by him too. To fill avoidhe’d had since the day he had been born.
Hell, I guessed, in a way, I knew the feeling.
And that was exactly why I knew I would domydamnedest to be the guy his biological father never would be. The type of guy Noah—and his mother—deserved.
“Buddy, I don’t need to get married to be your dad. If you want me, you have me. There doesn’t have to be more to it than that.”
