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“And, I don’t know,” I spit out in exasperation, throwing my hands in the air. “It was fucking awkward.”
“Awkward how?”
Bitterness rears its ugly head and I blurt out the truth, immediately wishing I could reel it back in the second it’s out. “I got a glimpse at what my life could be and it sucked.”
His features soften and he takes a step toward me. “Oh, Jude. That’s heartbreaking.”
I don’t want his pity.
“He’s got a wife and kids,” I grumble, unable to stop the waterfall of confessions. “If I’d stayed with Serra, that might’ve been me too.”
“Do you want kids?”
“No,” I snap, anger swelling like a tidal wave. “I mean, not anymore.”
He starts to reach for my hand but pulls back at the last second. My own palm twitches with need for him to physically comfort me. I don’t deserve it because I’ve been a rabid animal toward him, but I crave it more than my next breath.
Just grab his hand.
Apologize.
Show him you can be human too.
“He wants to reconnect,” I rasp out, choosing my scapegoat once more. “To actually hang out and grab a beer.” I gesture at my mask. “Imagine having to explain this shit after nearly two decades. I’m a fucking freak.”
Tate’s features scrunch at my words as if I’ve hurt him with them, which is impossible. Those words were aimed at me. I’m the freak, not him.
Well, maybe he’s a freak in the sheets according to that video, but that’s beside the matter right now.
“You’re not a freak,” he says firmly. “A grumpy jerk sometimes? Absolutely. A freak? Nope. You can stop thinking of yourself that way right now.”
“You think I’m a grumpy jerk?” For some reason, this has my lips curling into a pleased smile. “You’re supposed to be the professional here, not admit that shit to your client.”
He shrugs, smirking at me. “I just call it like I see it.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab onto his hand. It’s smaller than mine but fits nicely. He’s warm and soft compared to my clammy and scarred. His eyebrow lifts in question.
“I, uh, want to say something to you,” I mumble, shifting on my feet. “About this morning.”
“Okay.” He purses his lips. “I’m listening.”
“Not here,” I say with a huff. “Let me show you something first.”
If he’s disappointed by my stalling tactics, he doesn’t let on. He squeezes my hand and gives me a nod of encouragement that does wonders to soothe my brittle, aching soul.
“I can’t wait to see, Jude.” His words feel deeper and laced with more meaning than what’s spoken.
See what?
Me?
That can’t ever happen.
Tate
He’s talking.
He’s actually freaking talking.
