He goes to Our Open Table.
No cameras.
No press.
He goes because hewantsto.
My heart warms, as though it’s being wrapped in a hug of its own. “Being around Bev and Vinnie is one of my happy places to go, so I get it. Besides Kourtney, they’re the only people who have ever cooked for me. They’re…home.”
The way he watches me feels too intimate. I have to look away before my heart jumps up my throat and chokes me of my words.
Which is nearly impossible when he says, “I can cook for you. You just have to say the word.”
My eyes snap up to meet his.
We stare at one another for a long time.
Maybe one of us would have said something more if the doorbell hadn’t gone off. When he sees the way my body stiffens, knowing who’s on the other side of the door, he walks around the island and steps up to me.
His touch is gentle, so gentle, as he tips my chin up. He scans my face. My right eye. My left. My nose. My lips, downtrodden in a frown. Then he says the same thing he did at my apartment when he saw me crying. “I’ve got you.”
A soft-spoken promise that I feel all the way to my toes. The pad of his thumb caresses my jaw before he releases me when the doorbell goes off for a second time.
“Impatient asshole,” he grumbles as he heads toward the front door.
I didn’t tell Kourtney I was doing this when she came over yesterday. I knew she’d volunteer to come, and there was a chance Ashton Dessen wouldn’t walk out without some significant damage—whether physical or emotional.
As much as I love how protective my sister is, I know I need to do this alone. She can’t fight every battle for me, even if she wants to. So, I stand a little taller, roll my shoulders, and wait to feel the impact of seeing Ashton’s face.
And when he steps in, he instantly locks eyes with me. Weary and alert and…sad. Sad for me? Or him? Or does he have the audacity to feel sad for his brother?
Thomas and Ashton exchange words, but they’re too quiet for me to hear from the kitchen. Whatever our host says is short and sweet, maybe a warning to behave. Maybe something else.
I’ve got you.
I believe him.
Wetting my lips, I try not to react as Ashton walks into the kitchen and holds out his hand. He looks so much like Adam.
Staring at the angular face and the almond-shaped eyes that are the color of brown that isn’t quite chocolate or golden but a shade in between is a punch to the gut. His features are nothing spectacular. Nothing unique. Yet, I’ll never forget that face. Not even when I’m old and gray and have forgotten my own name.
That face—Adam’sface—will be imprinted in my mind until the day I die.
Because it’s the shade I saw when Adam Burgess yelled out to Kourtney and me as he was being taken away in handcuffs.“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t remember.”
Kourtney and I held on to each other so tightly that day that we gave one another bruises.
Ashton still holds out his hand, but I don’t take it. Not out of spite, but because I can’t will myself to lift my palm. I swallow, finding it hard to get past the lump forming deep in my throat as I stare up at him and notice every similarity he shares with his brother.
His throat bobs as he watches me, trying to keep an even expression but not hiding the dim in those brown eyes. “Hello, Winter.”
If he’s offended that I don’t shake his hand, he doesn’t show it. He simply lowers it, clears his throat, and slides that same hand into the front pocket of his slacks.
Say something, a voice in my head urges.
The two-letter greeting is on the tip of my tongue when I find myself saying something different entirely. “You look so much like him,” I whisper, blinking at the same shape of his nose and lips and the way his jaw is not quite square or round but still a masculine shape. His brother was a little heavier, like he didn’t really work out or eat right. He was probably on a liquid diet only, or whatever food was served at bars. Peanuts? Wings?
I wouldn’t know. I refuse to step into one.
