The table is covered with food that certainly didn’t come from my fridge, but after his story last night, I’m guessing he’s aman with means. Probably the illegal kind. There are steaks and thinly sliced fries with a dark gravy, glasses of both red and white wine, and fresh buns.
“What’s all this?”
Cade heads to the side to lower Millie to the ground in front of a bowl of soft cat food—also a new addition. She presses into his legs, thanking him, before he turns to me. He’s dressed nicer than I’ve ever seen him—dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and the top button undone. It keeps his tattoos visible and still reminds me of my Cade.
My Cade? Oh, good fuck, I’m in danger.I still haven’t made a decision about him. Or have I in the safe confines of my mind?
“If you can’t figure out this is a Valentine’s celebration, it means no one’s cooked for you before. Which makes me thrilled to be your first.”
“You are,” I say without thinking, giving him this much. “This is…a lot.”
“Nothing less than you deserve.” He tugs me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist until dipping to kiss me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Aspen.”
It’s entirely romantic. Sugary sweet from a man who looks anythingbutthat. But there’s too much between us still.
“You disappeared today. Did you find Victor?”
“Kinda.” He leads me to the nearest chair, tugs it out, and pushes me down into it. “Sit. Eat before your food gets cold. We’ll talk. Now that you know all about me and what I do, I won’t lie to you.”
“That’s not true,” I murmur, watching as he takes the other chair. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you.”
“So ask,” he says around a wine glass. “But eat too.”
The steak is cooked to perfection, and the fries are seasoned so well. I could devour this plate easily, but I force myself to eat slowly to avoid getting a stomach ache. “I don’t know where tostart. I know nothing about you except that you were in jail, and you run a gang. There’s a lot more to you.”
“Is there?” His lips curl. “Isn’t that all the important stuff?”
My hand stretches to rest over his. “You’re more than an inmate, Cade.”
He flips the hold until his fingers tangle with mine. It makes slicing into a steak basically impossible. “My guys are my whole life. Never knew my father; he was an abusive asshole. One member, dead now—called himself Ty—found my mom and I on the street. I was only a few months old at the time. He gave us a place to stay for the night and offered to send her to a women’s shelter for long-term assistance, but he found something within her that he wanted to keep.” At the word, his hold grows tighter. “They weren’t together for long, and broke up when I was about four, but by then, everyone else accepted us. We were family. So we gained their protection, and Mom and I spent a few more months with Ty as a roommate situation before she got us our own place. When I was old enough to join the crew formally, I did.”
A sad story with a happy ending. “Where’s your mom now?”
“Cancer took her a few years before I went to jail.”
A flash of pain crosses his expression, and I’d hate to ruin all his work tonight with grief, so I move on to ask, “And Bones?”
“Was one of my first friends when we were old enough to actually pay attention to one another. He was Ty’s nephew, so he was around a lot. I’d trust him with my life, which is why I trusted him with yours.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, because it’s polite, and truth be told, the only reason I left to shop today was because Bones was nearby. “What did you do for the first nine years of jail before the pen pal situation?”
“Counted the minutes passing me by. Looked pretty bleak ’til you came along.” He releases me only for his glass, so I take thefreedom to slice as much of my food before he reclaims his hold. “Tell me about the rest of your degree. I’m a bit out of touch with the education system, so correct me if I’m wrong, but a girl who wrote a novel of an essay shouldn’t be working at a flower shop.”
“It’s for money. I finished the program last spring and applied for a research assistant job with a psych prof, which I begin this April. It’ll be work experience within the field to help buffer my PhD application.”
He hums. “So you’re headed to be a doctor. I like that. My smart girl.”
The heat rising in my cheeks has nothing to do with the candles, but the way my stomach knots at that. And then, when he looks at me, it’s for an entirely other reason.
“Endgame?”
“Clinical psychologist.”
“Hm, we could probably use one of those in the crew.”
My brow hikes at his insinuation. “I never said I was staying with you.”
Death would be kinder than the look he throws at me. “Pretending you don’t want me, or this, is exhausting. Give up and tell me about your childhood.”
