Vander ignores Curtis, turning his face to mine. “I apologize, Kendall. It won’t happen again.”
I nod and briefly smile before averting my eyes. I’m on edge with him here. Afraid one of us will give something away without meaning to. Which is ridiculous, because it’s not like we’ve done anything.
Yet. A little devil whispers gleefully in my ear. With invisible hands, I swat it away.
“West says shit and fuck all the time,” Ridge, unhelpfully, supplies. “And Stella is always saying cock on the phone with her friends.”
Stella splutters, almost spilling her water down the front of her shirt.
“That kind of language is not becoming,” I tell my youngest son. “I don’t want to hear you saying those words again. Understood?” Ridge is nine, so I reckon I have three, maybe four, years tops, before he enters that phase.
Curtis narrows his eyes at our eldest children. “You need to watch what you say around your brother.”
I work hard not to roll my eyes. Curtis has been known to drop expletives on a regular basis, and I find it laughable he’s attempting to parent. He’s usually the fun, reckless one while I’m the boring disciplinarian. I drill him with a look. “That goes for you, too,” I say because I can’t help it.
“Relax, Dad,” West says while a muscle clenches in my husband’s jaw. He has never liked me reprimanding him in front of the children. “It’s not like we go around cussing all the time. I bet he hears worse in school.”
“I can’t be held accountable for his eavesdropping,” Stella says, pointing her finger at Ridge. “No listening in on my phone calls or I won’t let you stay up late when I’m babysitting.”
Ridge scowls, and a flash of fear crosses his face. I know he has his sister wrapped around his little finger, so Stella’s threats are empty, but if it helps to stop my baby from cursing, I’m all for it.
“Now, quit deflecting, Van. Who were you out with last night?” Stella waggles her brows.
“He was on a dinner date with Gayle Turner,” West supplies when it’s clear Vander is not going to say anything.
Pain spreads across my chest, and I dig my nails into my thighs. I know who she is. She was all over him at his birthday party, thrusting her big boobs in his face any opportunity she got. He didn’t seem interested, but maybe I was mistaken.
Why does the thought of them together send my stomach pitching to my feet and cause nausea to swim up my throat?He’s young, free, and single, and I have no claim on him or right to the jealous envy twisting my insides into knots. I hop up. “I’m going to get dessert.” Swiping my plate, I head out to the kitchen to compose myself.
I dump my half-eaten food into the trash, rinse my plate, and place it in the dishwasher while trying to ignore the pressure sitting on my chest and the dagger-like pain stabbing me through the heart. Gripping the edge of the counter, I hunch over, drawing exaggerated breaths as I silently lie to myself.
“I didn’t want to take her out,” Vander says, and a squeal rips from my throat at his unexpected presence. He walks toward me. “My father made me do it.”
“What?” I lift my head and push off the counter as he sets a bunch of dirty plates down on the island unit. “What do you mean?”
He walks confidently toward me. “He’s trying to land the Turner Media account. Her dad asked mine to do this.” He steps close, and the tips of his sneakers brush against my ballet flats. “It meant nothing.” He leans down, and notes of sandalwood and orange tickle my nose as his cologne swirls around me. He presses his mouth to my ear, and my heart gallops behind my chest. “I didn’t even kiss her though it wasn’t for lack of trying on her part.”
I’ll bet. I knew girls like Gayle in high school. If she has set her sights on Vander, she will be tough to shake. The thought settles in my gut like a rock, and I have to remind myself—again—that he’s not mine. He’s a free agent. He can date whomever he likes. It doesn’t matter if we have feelings for one another. Nothing can happen, and it’s better if he dates because maybe he’ll put all notions of anusaside.
Vander pulls his head back, staring at me, and I hold my breath as he peers into my face. Having him this close is disconcerting. He could be a model with his big, mesmerizing green eyes framed by thick black lashes, and his sharp jawline, strong nose, perfectly proportioned thick lips, and the tempting layer of stubble on his chin and cheeks. His broad body encases my smaller one, and he makes me feel feminine and protected yet empowered at the same time. It’s insane how safe I feel just being around him. I don’t ever remember feeling like this around Curtis.
“I like that you’re jealous,” he says, his lips tipping up at the corners. “It shows you care.”
“Vander.” I narrow my eyes in warning before sidestepping him. “You can’t say stuff like that to me.”
“Sorry.” He cocks his head to one side, looking completely unapologetic. “I can’t control the things that come out of my mouth when I’m around you.”
My fingers brush the discolored skin on his cheekbone. “How did you get this bruise?”
His smile fades. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he steps back. “Don’t ask.” He looks down at his feet as tension tightens his jaw.
Rage swirls through my veins unbidden. “He hit you?” Closing the gap between us, I tip his chin up, forcing his eyes to mine. Sometimes, when I look into Vander’s eyes, he seemsso old. He has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but staring into his eyes is like looking at an ancient battle-weary soul, and I hate that for him. “I thought the boxing put a stop to that.”
I called child services once after he showed up at my place with a cut and bruised face. That asshole Gregory made it go away, and he used his fists to deliver a brutal punishment to his wife and his son. It was a lesson learned the hard way, and I didn’t bother reporting him again. Instead, I found the boxing club, and Vander learned how to defend himself.
“It has,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. “But that doesn’t mean things are good.”
I know this. I have tried my best to be there for him, and I know West supports him, but he shouldn’t have to live like this. I already know the answer to this question, but I’m going to ask it anyway. “You’re eighteen now, Vander, and you have your future all mapped out. Why do you still stay there? You have the inheritance from your grandparents, and you’ll get into Yale to study art, so why don’t you just leave?” If my home life wasn’t such a mess, and I didn’t have such confusing feelings for him, I would offer him one of the guest bedrooms. But it’s out of the question.
