“I like that you’re honest.”
“My honesty usually gets me in trouble,” he says, placing his hand over the glass as the waiter moves to pour wine in it. “I’m driving,” he explains, pushing my glass in the waiter’s direction.
“How come?” I ask after the waiter has left.
“I’ve got a big mouth and little filter, and sometimes I say things to deliberately piss people off.”
I burst out laughing. “Shocker right there.”
He stares at me with an indecipherable expression, and now it’s my turn to ask, “What?”
“You have the most amazing laugh, and your beautiful face just lit up like the Fourth of July. You should do it more often.”
I grin. “Why, Kent, that might just be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I sincerely hope that’s not the case. And if you’re relying on me to sweet-talk you, you’re in a world of trouble.” His blue eyes latch on to mine, and I momentarily forget how to breathe. We’re sitting so close our thighs are brushing, and every aspect of his gorgeous face is magnified at this proximity.
“I have a feeling you’re too hard on yourself,” I say before taking a sip of the crisp, cold white wine.
He shrugs. “Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you. I’m sure that’s infinitely more interesting.”
“I beg to differ, but what do you want to know?”
“Tell me about you. Your family. Where you grew up.” He drinks from his glass of water as he waits for me to talk.
“Not much to tell. My parents died when I was nine, and I grew up in the foster care system until I aged out at eighteen.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “Don’t be. It is what it is, and while I don’t talk about my childhood much, I have nothing to hide either.”
“How did your parents die?”
“Car crash. We were coming home from the movies, and a truck plowed into our car. Mom was killed instantly, and Dad died on the way to the hospital. I was in the back seat, and I escaped with cuts and bruises and a broken left arm.”
“That must’ve been tough to deal with as a kid.”
I take a healthy glug of my wine. “It was. I didn’t speak for a full year after they died. My social worker sent me to a therapist, and she said I had PTSD.”
“How did you overcome that?” he asks, looking genuinely interested.
“Therapy and time and meeting a couple guys in my new home. Connecting with Clay and Chris was a turning point for me.”
“They’re friends or…”
“Clay is my de facto big brother, and he’s looked out for me from the minute I met him. Chris is the same age as me. We were friends for a long time before we became more.”
The waiter arrives with our pasta then, and the timing is perfect. I’m not sure I want to talk about my ex on a first date. Especially with the complicated history Chris and I share and the fact I still talk to him, still see him.
Lync hated Chris. Hated he was still a part of my life.
No one understands the bond between us, or how what we went through means we will always share a connection. Even Clay doesn’t understand it. He’s washed his hands of Chris, and he wants me to do the same, but I can never turn my back on him. Anyone in my life will just have to find a way to deal with it.
“What about you?” I ask, in between bites of mouthwatering creamy fettuccine. “I know what I’ve read about your family, but what are they really like?”
He chews his food before speaking. “Loud. Nosy. Annoying. Suffocating.”
My eyes pop wide. I wasn’t expecting him to say that.
