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The porch began to spin, and she sank into a squat, trying to slow her brain and body. Before she reached the floor, Rylan’s strong arms were around her. “Shhh...it’s okay. I got you.”
With one hand under her knees and the other supporting her waist, he carried her into the house. Lowering her gently onto a sofa, he knelt on the floor at her side. Jekyll followed them and lay on the rug nearby, his gaze fixed worriedly on Bree’s face.
“Do you want some water?”
Bree shook her head, clutching his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”
Moving to sit on the sofa, he drew her close, cushioning her head on his thighs. “Better?”
The warmth of his body was exactly what she needed. “Yes...much.”
She closed her eyes. After a moment or two, he began to gently stroke her hair.
“I wish we could stay like this. Just shut everything else out.” She didn’t care what had happened in the past, didn’t care if she was making herself vulnerable again. There was that moment, and the comfort only he could give her.
“My mom used to say, when you stop wishing you may as well be dead.” Rylan’s voice was soft and soothing.
“That’s the first time you’ve mentioned your mom.”
His hand paused for a second before resuming its caressing motion. “She was a nice lady who got dealt a bad hand in life.”
“Was the bad hand your dad?” Bree opened her eyes. Her position, with her head in his lap, gave her a distorted view, but she saw his jaw muscles tense. “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“I’ve spent my whole life not talking about it. Maybe it’s time to start.” He tilted his head so he could look at her. “My dad was an alcoholic. Mom would never use that word. She’d say he liked a drink, or he had a drink problem. After his death, she admitted he had an addiction. But the stigma of the word alcoholic was too strong for her. My mom told me that my father grew up incredibly poor. He was badly bullied at school because he wore used clothes and never had any money. His father, my grandfather, was physically abusive to his wife and kids. I guess that’s where my dad learned his ways.”
“He struck you?” Bree was shocked.
“Sober, he was the most mild-mannered man you could wish to meet. But when he hit the bottle? He was a nasty drunk. I was a sensitive kid, and my mom would try to protect me, but he loved to torment me. While I dodged the blows, he’d call me weak, a wimp, mommy’s boy...anything to make me feel worthless.”
Tears stung Bree’s eyes as she listened to him calmly recount the story of his nightmarish childhood. She thought of her own dad. Of his steady presence, his calm patience, his warm protection. All the things she’d had that Rylan hadn’t. It was so clear to her now. Rylan’s whole life had been about proving his cruel father wrong, showing he was stronger, harder and better than those around him. Underneath the tough guy exterior, the sweet, sensitive person was still there. That was the man she had fallen for.
“When I was twelve, he had a heart attack and died in his sleep. Isn’t that known as a millionaire’s death? Ironic, because he never had a cent to his name while he was alive. After he passed, Mom juggled a series of jobs to keep a roof over our heads. When she fell ill, I took over and cared for her. She died when I was eighteen and... Well, I guess you know the rest.”
She turned, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his torso. They stayed that way for a long time.
“Hey.” When Bree lifted her head, Rylan ran his thumb down her cheek, brushing away the wetness. “What’s this?”
“I’m so sorry for everything you went through.”
“It’s in the past.” His tone was gruff.
“Are you sure?” She sat up, but didn’t move away, remaining half reclined in his lap. It didn’t feel wrong. They were sharing the role of comforter. “Don’t you ever think about it?”
He was silent for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he did speak, his voice was low. “I try not to, but the memories intrude every now and then. When my dad started shouting, my mom used to send me to my room. I knew it was because he was getting close to hitting one of us, and she wanted to make sure it was her. Sometimes, I’d hear her cries and I’d—” he dug his knuckles into his eyes “—I’d pee my pants. Brave, huh?”
