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He was in no mood to be teased.
“You lay on the floor with Lou until the paramedics came, holding her hand and talking to her. I don’t know a single soul who would do that. And I’ll never forget witnessing it, Daphne. Not until the day I die.”
I stared up at him, throat closed.
“You come with baggage, yes,” he carried on. “But I’m profoundly aware I bring the same, and along with it an abiding inability to find my way around the rather imposing obstacle of living in complete fear that I’ll turn into my father.”
Well, goddamn.
One could say that was putting it out there.
“Honey—”
He shook his head. “No. It’s there. You need to know about it. I’ve had a lot of women. I’ve always ended it. Always, Daphne. And I hope you know with me being with you, I have exceptional taste.”
Yes.
Always saying the right thing.
“So there were many thrown away that a more adjusted man would have known better and kept,” he finished.
It was time to nip this in the bud.
“I appreciate this heartfelt honesty. It means everything, honey. Really everything. But what you’re not cyphering into this conversation is first, I’m a part of this equation, with free will and a brain in my head to make decisions for myself. And second, I’m making decisions based on the fact you haven’t hidden any of what you’re talking about. You’ve been what you promised you were. You aren’t leading me on. You aren’t hiding anything. It’s common knowledge that women want or really don’t want to grow up to be their mothers. The same with men. You’ve made it clear which way you swing. Attempting to observe this clinically, your awareness of it and ability to talk about it speaks volumes for you.”
“I haven’t run you off yet, although in a sense, I’ve tried. Perhaps it’s testing, though I hope it doesn’t feel that way, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been unconsciously doing it.”
“And again, you know yourself,” I pointed out.
He lifted his chin in acknowledgement of my words and carried on, “So prepare for this, I’ve never discussed any of this with another woman.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
“Yes,” he replied.
Wow.
That was big.
I grinned at him, clasped my hands in front of me and twisted his way, leaning against him and saying, “He likes me. He really, really likes me.”
He grinned back and said, “You’re a nitwit.”
I batted my eyelashes at him and returned, “Why, Lord Alcott, you say the sweetest things.”
He kept grinning and urged, “Drink up. Mum’s very aware of my age, but she’s still my mum. The roads are winding and dark. She doesn’t like us driving them at night. The sooner we’re home, the sooner she can stop worrying.”
I took up my cider again, noting, “You’re a very good son.”
“She needs one decent man in her life,” he murmured, taking a sip of his own drink.
But in taking mine, I watched him, struck to my core in learning something new about this man.
Mr. Honesty, Self-Own, Say the Right Thing, Thoughtfulness Personified Ian was all of this for his mother.
She had a husband with a wandering eye and a younger son who was about as deep as a bowl of water.
Ian filled in the gaps.
