“Why are you smiling?”
“You just told me all I needed to know,” he says.
“What?”
“You’re thinking about her, not yourself.” He watches me for a second. “That is all I needed to hear.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“And stop talking about yourself like that. You're not damaged goods. Anyone who made you believe that didn’t reallyknow you. I do. I know my children, and I know you have the biggest heart. You take care of your own. You always have.”
I look away.
“We all make mistakes, son. Every single one of us. But the worst thing you can do is let your past decide your future. It’s meant to teach you, not break you. You went through hell and came out stronger. That’s not weakness. That’s the kind of man people hold on to when life gets hard.”
His voice softens. “I might not say it enough, but I am proud of you. Damn proud to call you my son.”
He pulls me into a hug, firm and steady, then lets me go.
“Think about it. A life without your person… that’s not living. That’s torture.”
He nods once, then turns and walks back to the party.
I let out a slow breath. His words settle deep, hitting places I have kept locked up for years.
I knew she was different the moment she walked into my bar. My heart stuttered the second she walked in and never found its rhythm again.
What Dad said is true. She has taken up every part of me, and no other woman will ever come close.
I drag a hand through my hair.
I found my one.
Fucking Hawthorne men curse.
But is it really a curse to love her?
No. It’s fire and hunger and something wild I can’t control. And even if I could never have her, I would never wish I hadn’t met her.
So what is left to do?
Pressure builds under my ribs, like I cannot get a full breath in. Something has shifted, and there is no going back from it.
I push off the bike and walk back inside. Lexy is at the bar, laughing with Grace, Penny, andSummer.
I head straight for the band, request the song, then turn toward her.
She looks up and spots me, her expression cautious, unsure after I walked out. But when I tilt my head, she understands. Somewhere during the snowstorm, our communication shifted from words to looks, and she can read me like an open book now.
I’m not mad at her. I never could be.
Her shoulders relax, and she smiles.
I start toward her but get stopped by a hand on my arm. When I turn, Cynthia is already there.
“How about a dance, cowboy?” she asks, leaning in.
I step back. “Not interested.”
