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He shakes his head. “I had nannies growing up. Mean ones.”
Even though he smiles, I don’t. Clay has shared enough with me about his childhood that I know he hides a lot of his pain behind laughter and avoidance.
Maybe that’s why I do what I do. I can give people the healing and release they want without having to reveal too much.
“You’re a really good mom, Eden.” His voice is soft and warm, and that compliment hits me harder than I expect it to.
“I don’t feel like one,” I reply.
He scoffs, closing the lid on the coffee maker. “Seriously? Out of all the times you scolded me for talking bad about myself, listen to you.”
My throat starts to feel tight. “You have no idea how hard it is, Clay.”
“I know I don’t. Because you never gave me a chance…”
“Yes, I did,” I reply softly.
“Did you, though? By then, it was too late, wasn’t it?”
“It’s never too late,” I reply, giving him a pleading expression.
“Maybe. But I wish things had happened differently. I wish I knew you then the way I know you now.”
“You know it was never because I didn’t care about you,” I reply, but that only makes him spin toward me.
“No, I don’t. I don’t know that. I had no idea it wasn’t because you didn’t care about me. I felt likenothingto you.”
He’s standing so close the proximity makes it hard to breathe.
“You wereeverythingto me,” I reply in a hushed shout.
“Then why?” he asks, those emerald-green eyes boring into mine. What is it about his face that brings me so much comfort? How do those sharp cheekbones and full lips seem to always make me break all my rules?
When he gestures around my house, I take a deep breath to ready myself for the same fight all over again. “When were you going to tell me about all of this?” he asks.
“I couldn’t…I couldn’t risk ending up like I did before.”
His brows fold together as he waits for me to elaborate. But I can’t.
Instead, I walk away from him as if I can escape this conversation. But there aren’t many places for me to go. Jack is asleep in the living room, so my feet carry me to my bedroom.
Naturally, Clay follows.
Big mistake.
“Eden, please. Talk to me,” he begs, sounding defeated.
When I spin around to find him standing in my room, closing the door so we’re shut in together, I feel a sense of worry building in my chest. This is bad.
I back myself into a corner, leaning against the dresser and staring at him with my arms crossed.
“What did you mean by ending up like you did before?” he asks. “You mean with Jack’s father?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Did he hurt you?” He takes another step closer. “Did he hurt Jack?” His voice takes on a dark and menacing inflection when he asks that.
“I left before Jack was born,” I reply without meeting his gaze. “If it wasn’t for Jack, I might have never left.”
