I lick across my dry lower lip and his gaze clocks it. “Yes, but I’ve also done the burning. Have you ever done anything you’re ashamed of?”
He doesn’t shrug off my question, nor does he laugh it off. His expression is solemn when he says, “Many times. I was an insufferable dick.”
This time, I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Did your flirting get you in trouble?”
“My anger.”
Oh. My spine straightens as questions pour into my head. Was he violent? Did he hurt someone? How did he lash out?
“I should amend that,” he says and takes the paper holder off from around his silverware and napkin. “My anger made me an insufferable dick. I had a smart mouth and I wasn’t afraid to be a pain in the ass with it. Lane was better, but it was also like I had permission to be even less responsible when he was around.”
He’s not giving me details, but I feel like he’s giving me more than he gives anyone else. I need to return the favor. I’ll use his same vague storytelling style. “I was a good girl growing up.”
His lips curve up. “I’m not surprised.”
“I went wild after I left home, but no one really knows. That was the allure, you see. The anonymity. In Huckleberry Springs, I was Bob and Patty’s daughter. Pastor Karl’s niece. Everyone knew me wherever I went, and they expected the best.”
“But you didn’t always want to be on your best behavior.”
I lift a shoulder. “I guess? Sometimes I can’t figure it out, and I’ve never told anyone the things I did.” I roll my lips in. I can’t believe what I’m going to say next, but the words push out anyway. “I never even talked to my family about the guy I was seeing, and we were together for years.”
His brows lift. “A big part of you must’ve known he was bad news.”
“That was the draw,” I say with a sigh. “I was so... Ugh. Young and dumb.”
A divot forms between his brows. “Don’t blame yourself for someone else’s bad actions.”
I give him a small smile, but my stomach sinks. I might’ve dated a bad boy, but for a while there, I was also a bad girl.
Cruz
I can’t pinpoint when Elodie closed off on me again, but we went from talking about our pasts to idly chatting about our jobs.
It’s amazing I can talk at all after seeing her pink-denim-clad legs, andfuuuck, her painted toes with the hummingbird tattoos. Her rigid posture is keeping her little shirt from playing peekaboo, and it’s killing me. I have to keep focused on our light conversation. Otherwise, I’ll do nothing but obsess about that strip of skin at her abdomen.
“So you split equally and there’s no arguing?” she asks. Our plates are stacked to the side. While I loved her running commentary of how the restaurant brought out a smoky flavor and pulled back on the heat to create a delectable beef dish, I want to dig into Elodie Palmer. In so many ways.
Only she’s been asking about me, and if getting to know what I do each day makes her more comfortable, I’m happy to share.
I’m also pleased that her interest seems real. I’ve been on dates before where I wasn’t the topic of interest as much as my bottom line. I’m doing financially okay now, great even, but for most of my adult life, I wasn’t. What I had was someone else’s, and I cared for it. Before that, I had nothing.
“There might be some bickering,” I say, “but no, we all get along pretty well. The Hennessys are chill. Lane can be uptight with me, but he isn’t with them.”
“I guess I’m the same with Clem. I’m so glad I have her, so I don’t have to hire anyone.” Elodie’s gaze goes out the window. “I would like to have more than the part-time staff, but it’s just not in the cards right now. The bakery’s doors are open, so I’ll be content with that.”
“You deserve to have some help. It’s what I learned from my brother.”
“Lane?” she asks.
“Myles. He wouldn’t have been able to start Foster House without a big investment from Darin Bailey. He fostered with them for a while.”
Interest fills her face. I don’t normally discuss my family. My brothers, yes, but not like this. It’s hard to separate our personal business when it’s so entwined. Odd since we’d been separate for so long.
“It’s how Lane and I started with the Baileys. We didn’t grow up with Myles. He didn’t even know about us until our mom died.” I swallow hard when sympathy fills her eyes. This part isalso hard to explain without airing all my dirty laundry, but then I’ve never told anyone about it before.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs and reaches across the table to put her hand on mine. My skin warms as energy tingles between us.
“Thanks.” Most people know Myles was in foster care. He doesn’t keep that part a secret, since it’s woven into the brand. Foster House isn’t just about our last name. “Myles’s dad passed when he was little, and our mom struggled with addiction and would clean up sporadically. She met my dad, and he drove her back to using.”
