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He leveled me with those dark, fathomless eyes. “I haven’t seen my sister since the night I left home.”
“What about your father?”
His face blanked entirely as I hit the source of his pain.
“He paid. For everything. Every program she signed me up for, lunch programs, after school programs, after dinner sports and activities, he paid for them. He picked me up at the end of the night which was the extent of the time he spent with me. That continued until I was fourteen when his three younger children required chauffeuring to all their activities. I was relegated to public transport and his involvement in my life dwindled to nothing.”
“Ares,” I murmured softly.
He looked at me warily. “Please let me finish and don’t ask any more questions.”
I nodded my agreement.
He took a deep breath and continued. “He bought me a car when I turned sixteen and got my license. At nineteen, his wife kicked me out. He allowed it. But paid for my apartment.” He picked at an invisible piece of lint on his pants. “She didn’t want him to pay. It was the only time he went against her.”
“Ares,” I whispered. “That’s terrible.”
Abruptly, he yanked his hand away from mine. “I’m not telling you this to gain your sympathy. But even I can see I need to give you some sort of explanation for my screwed-up behavior if I’m asking you to spend time with me.”
“Spend time with you. So, you want to do this?” I wagged a hand between the two of us.
His eyes skittered away, and he huffed out a harsh laugh. Mimicking my motion of wagging his hand between us, he retorted, “I’m not doing this with you. But while I’m not doing this with you, I won’t be seeing anyone else.” He paused. Swallowed. Met my eyes. “Or saying otherwise.”
I leaned toward him. “You are the most infuriatingly complicated man. I won’t see anyone else while I’m not seeing you either.”
My response wrested a tiny half-smile from his beautiful lips. I’d take that tiny victory.
I raised my fist. “Fist bump.”
His eyes widened. He held up his fist with a smirk and gently bopped mine. “Did you just ask to fist bump me? Do you even know how to date?”
“So, we are dating?” I teased.
“We’re seeing where it goes,” he grunted. His eyes smiled as he gathered up our empty cups. “Do you fist bump all your dates goodnight?”
I got to my feet. “Not at all.” I answered like it was the most natural conversation in the world. “Not all of them warranted a fist bump.” I paused. “We are just talking about fist bumps, right?”
He laughed.
Out loud.
The sound ignited a sparkler of wonder in my heart, and I stood staring up at him, laughing joyfully.
He shook his head and placed his hand at the small of my back as we headed toward the door. “Who else do you fist bump?”
I thought for a minute. “Just Lucky. Everyone else thinks it’s weird.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “Does he get the finger guns, too?”
“Nope!” I laughed, pulled them out, and shot him up. “Those are just for you.”
At the elevator, he lifted my hand to his mouth, brushed his lips across my knuckles, and smiled down at me. “Have a good day, Hope.” Without a glance back, he walked out.
The warm feeling left from his kiss began to dissipate as his words from earlier came back to me. As soon as I got upstairs to my office, I closed myself behind my door, my heart broken for the little boy inside him who was still hurting.
It was not to be tolerated.
I spun in my chair and thought about our upcoming date as the warrior and the mother inside me prepared for battle.
