Despite how dangerous I know it is, particularly to the structure of the wall I’m intentionally building between us, I turn to face him. His eyes are focused on the case, his mouth a grim line.
“You blamed yourself for her Alzheimer’s?”
“Did you know less than ten percent of Alzheimer’s cases occur before the age of sixty-five?”
I shake my head, leaning my hip against the table as I give him my full attention. I’m not sure why Carter is opening up to me about this right now, but there is a voice in the back of my mind telling me that whatever he says next is going to be a crucially important part ofhimthat he doesn’t share with many other people.
“My mom is fifty-two. Thirteen years younger than that.” It’s his turn to shake his head. “Anyway, they’re not really sure what causes the disease, or to be more accurate, it’s a number of factors.”
His eyes are jumping, trying to find a safe space to land. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the confession.
I turn back to my work, trying to give him the space to work through what he’s saying.
“My brain focused on lifestyle factors that can contribute to it, like not sleeping well, social isolation, and lack of mental stimulation. Because do you know what having a kid when you’re eighteen does? Especially when you’re thesecondgirl to get knocked up by the same asshole? You get all of those things in spades. My mom is the smartest person I know, but she didn’t go to college. She became a social pariah in Wild Bluffs for a lot of years and never had any actual friends her age. She still doesn’t. And having kids? It’s basically a recipe to never sleep well.”
He can’t actually think his mom’s dementia is his fault, can he?
“That’s not—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I understand now it’s not my fault. Even if all those things are true, those are just a few of the many factors that cause early-onset Alzheimer’s. And even if they were the only causes, they weren’t decisions I made or had control over. So, yes, I understand wanting to blame yourself when something goes wrong. And when you’re intelligent, it’s even easier to make connections between your actions and the outcomes. But unless you spilled something on the earpieces and didn’t tell anyone or do anything about it, it’s not on you. You did everything you could.”
“Not everything,” I say reflexively, turning back toward him.
He lifts his eyebrow as he crosses his arms. My eyes track the curve of his left bicep as it presses against his body. The black polo he’s worn the last two concerts is pulled tight across his arms and chest, directingmy eyes to every bold inch of him. His time in the gym is clearly time well spent.
“Stop checking me out, Harper,” he says, his voice gruff.
My cheeks warm at the callout, but I force my eyes to meet his. “Are we going by last names now, Mitchell?”
“God, no. I take it back.”
I chuckle, turning back to finish the final earpiece, shutting the box with a resounding ‘click.’
“I am sorry,” he says after a few seconds in comfortable silence. “It wasn’t your fault, and as much as I want to be the one to win this contract, that’s not the way I want to win it.” I can feel the guilt he’s carrying with him, so I decide to let him off the hook.
“Thank you for the apology. It would’ve been nice, but it’s not your job to stand up for me. I can stand up for myself.”
“I know, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone standing next to you.”
His words hit a nerve somewhere near the bridge of my nose, and I turn away from him, making sure he doesn’t see the tears that want to flood my eyes. I’ve never wanted someone to fight my battles for me, but the idea of having someone to fight by my side? To watch my back while I annihilate the enemies in front of me? That doesn’t sound so bad.
“Come on,” I say, keeping my back to him as I make my way to the door, the case with the earpieces for Mitchell Security’s agents in my hand. “You can buy me a beer at the hotel bar to make up for it.”
Chapter thirteen
Kelsey
“IhateLondon,”Isay, staring across the Thames at the Tower of London jutting above the rooftops. Carter and I finished the pre-concert meeting an hour ago, and after dropping the box with the security earpieces off at my hotel room, we’re heading to the top restaurant for the city.
After one beer turned into three last night, Carter and I have fallen into an easy friendship. We sat next to each other on the flight from Toronto this morning, occasionally tapping each other on the shoulder before sharing some inane thought or opinion.
The image of Carter, his headphones pulled off one ear as he leaned over to tell me he thought the movie version ofThe Count of Monte Cristois superior to the book, will forever be stored as one of my favorite memories. His dark eyes were alight with joy, a rare smile taking up his entire face. It was Carter the happiest I’d ever seen him, and sharing that moment with him felt…special somehow.
Since we needed a full day to fly to London, Jaxon’s concert here isn’t until tomorrow night. Carter insisted we visit my top restaurant.
“I’m going to need more information than that,” Carter replies. “You can’t just drop the fact that you hateLondonof all cities and just expect me to go along with it.”
I laugh, amazed we’ve somehow progressed to the point in our friendship where he says more than five words at a time to me. “It’s a long story. Nothing was actually the city of London’s fault, but it holds a lot of bad memories for me.”
