“Oh geez.” She shouldn’t pry. Even TV stars were entitled to privacy. On impulse, she reached out and patted his arm, touching golden hair. “I’m sorry.”
Heat enveloped her. She gazed at her hand in horror, pulling it back as fast as she could without being obvious, then stuffing it under the table and into her apron pocket. What was she doing? She had no business touching him. “That’s awful,” she finally added.
He offered a lazy shrug again, his gaze still tracking her hand. “It was a long time ago.”
“There’s no one else—a brother or sister?” She struggled to recall if she’d heard anything about his family.
He laughed, but it was not cheerful, and lifted his gaze from her apron to meet her startled expression. “What are you, a reporter?”
She sucked in a breath at the sting, hating the sarcasm and tone of his voice. Tears threatened, taking her by surprise, and she looked away. It was the emotion of the day. That was all. Why should she care if Hank Haverill thought her a busybody? After he left Grandma Lou’s, chances were he would sell the building, and she would never see him again.
Her gaze met his and eyes the color of a perfect summer sky warred with her own. They seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room. Her earlier question still hung in the air, making Bethany wish she could take itback. She pushed her chair out. “I should get back to work.”
Hank held out a hand. “Don’t go. Please, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just, I’m asked a lot of questions. All the time. But this...sit, please. I’ll explain.”
Against her better judgment, Bethany sat—maybe because she believed his apology or maybe because she wanted to know the answer.
He cleared his throat and fingered the etchings in the wood table, his head bowed as if in prayer. “I have two half-sisters and a half-brother. All from different mothers. I’ve never met my sisters. I only recently met my half-brother, Connor.”
He looked up, and his gaze met hers. Sympathy welled inside her like he’d drilled for oil and found her weak spot. Her insides melted, but she did her best not to let pity show on her face. Pity shut down confidences faster than a lightning strike.
“This isn’t something I tell reporters.” He quirked his lips in a half-hearted smile. “I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. My dad was popular with the ladies. He was also a terrible father.”
Bethany placed a hand over her heart. “Look how you’ve turned out. I bet he’s sorry you don’t keep in touch.”
Instead of answering, Hank leaned back in his chair, ignoring the cell phone next to his plate, which seemed to vibrate every few minutes with an incoming call. “I didn’t say we don’t keep in touch, just that we’re not close. He contacts me every few months or so.”
“You don’t know where he lives?”
“He’s a nomad. Has trouble holding down a job. He never stays in one place for long.”
“He wouldn’t make the effort to call if he didn’tcare.”
Hank raised his eyebrows and accompanied it with a snort of laughter. “Whatever you say, Pollyanna.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she kept her voice firm. “A dad doesn’t call his child unless he cares.”
He slanted a brow. “This one calls because he wants money.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again, causing him to give her a superior smile.
“I told you he’s a terrible father.”
She puckered her lips. “Well, you have your brother, right?”
Hank shook his head and laughed, raising his glass of milk in a toast, then tossing down its contents like a shot of tequila. She must have looked stumped because he set the glass down with a sigh and continued. “More like he has me. My brother’s nineteen. He looked me up because he needs money for college and a place to live. He’s bright. Studying business. I couldn’t see the sense in making him struggle.”
“He lives with you?”
Hank shook his head and stretched his long arms behind his head. “No, he lives on campus. UCLA. Now I’ve satisfied your curiosity, it’s my turn, Beth.”
“Oh.” She swallowed a bubble in her throat. Her father had been the only one who’d ever called her Beth. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the simple nickname.
She squinted at him. He looked lazy and relaxed but somehow Bethany knew he wasn’t. She dropped her gaze to the table. A perfect rose scarred the wood. The rose had been there all of Bethany’s thirty-two years, even longer. Her father had carved it for her mother when they’d been teenagers in love. How could she ever bear to lose this oldplace? Bethany’s eyes burned, but she refused to give in to tears. Instead, she swallowed and raised her head, looking over Hank’s shoulder and not at his face. “What could you possibly want to know about me?”
“Who’s the actor who broke your heart?”
Bethany gasped, her eyes flicking to his intense gaze before she could prevent it. His question was so unexpected, it felt like he’d dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. She tried to laugh it off and failed. She managed a croak. “He’s not an actor.”
