“Yes.” His words sent a sharp tingle through her body, setting it on fire.
“So come to LA with me. No expectations. No strings. I promise, you’ll enjoy yourself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hank watched as Bethany made her way into her house. His stomach ached, like he’d eaten one too many cookies.
Why had he told her about his father? When he’d planned the evening, he’d imagined describing his mom and glossing over any mention of his dad. But somehow, she had drawn all the anguish of their strained relationship out of him. He’d known he had bitter feelings, but until tonight, he hadn’t registered the pain behind them.
Some men aren’t meant to be fathers.Her words, uttered as they were during Hank’s description of the horrible father who’d abandoned him as a child, sliced into his core with all the heaviness of an ax. Wasn’t he like his father—a string of women a mile long but emotionally unavailable to those who mattered? If he ever settled down, wouldn’t he also make a careless, absentee father? Being an actor was not conducive to family life.
“Let’s get moving,” he said to Louis after Bethany closed the front door.
The car pulled away from the curb, and his cell phonebuzzed. He checked the number and frowned.Connor.Although it had been over a year since Connor first arrived on his doorstep, he still hadn’t adjusted to the idea of having a brother. He had been alone far too long.
“Hello, Connor. Is Woodrow all right?”
“Hey, big guy. Woodrow’s fine. He’s had a long walk, a bath, and lots of treats.”
Hank frowned. “You shouldn’t feed him too many treats. The vet said it could affect his mood.”
“Yeah, well, they make him happy. If you ask me, he bit your ex because she had it coming to her.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Does there have to be a reason? I just thought I’d check in.”
“How much do you need?”
Connor coughed. “Ten thousand. I’ll pay it all back. I promise.”
“That’s what your dad says.”
“He’s your dad too.”
Hank groaned. “Don’t remind me.” It wasn’t fair to treat Connor like their father. “I told you I’d pay for tuition. Just let Pamela know the payment’s due, and I’ll have her take care of it.”
“I really will pay you back when I graduate.”
“It’s not a big deal, Connor. I can afford it.” He ignored the twinge inside at yet another drain on his bank account. “Was that it?”
“Well. . .”
“What happened? Did you wreck your car?”
“No, I didn’t wreck my car. I just...”
“Girl troubles? Don’t think I’m the best one to advise you there, but I’ll try.”
“No, Hank. I just...I want to wish you a happy birthday. I know it’s tomorrow, but you’re in a different time zone, and I have exams and will be cramming tomorrow and stuff.”
A strange feeling filled him—almost a warmth. “You. . .er. . .thank you.”
He hadn’t thought about his birthday. Pamela usually sent him a card signed by the rest of his staff. Blackie would sometimes buy him a drink. His father hadn’t called on his birthday in years, and there was no one else to remember or make a fuss except his fans, who tended to post their best wishes on social media or send him fan mail, which Elizabeth hired a firm to answer.
“I thought maybe we could hang out together or something when you’re back in town. When are you coming home?”
“You sound like a nagging wife.”
