“Everyone.” I looked at her. “But yeah. Women too.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Stick close to me, okay?” I said. “Not because you can’t handle yourself. I know you can. But because I know them. And I know this house. My dad’s a real ass. My mom died of cancer when I was a kid. I was the product of an affair he had a long time ago, and this place has been reminding me of that since I was old enough to understand where the real family photos were hung.”
The words came out rougher than I meant them to.
I looked down at where my fingers wrapped around her wrist.
“I should’ve told you all of this earlier,” I said. “Not now. Not like this.”
For a second, she didn’t move.
Then she turned her hand and squeezed mine back.
“No,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
I looked at her.
“It’s not okay.”
“It’s not ideal,” she corrected. “But I got it. I’ve got my own family drama. Different packaging, same poison.” Her mouth curved, small and crooked. “Thank you for telling me what I’m walking into.”
The knot in my chest loosened by half an inch.
“I don’t want them touching you,” I said.
Her brows lifted. “Touching me?”
“Emotionally. Physically. Metaphorically. Pick a category.”
“There’s my caveman.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Her smile faded. “I’ll stay close. But Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“If one of them says something, I’m not hiding behind you.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
She glanced toward the house again, then back at me, the crooked smile returning with just enough attitude to make my chest hurt.
“And go easy on yourself,” she said. “Yes, this is dramatic and you should have warned me before the airport. But I’ve survived Texas debutante luncheons, Stanford gossip, one torn hamstring, and you ordering me onto my stomach with massage oil in your living room. I can handle Thanksgiving.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
She leaned closer and touched my jaw.
I cupped her face before I could stop myself.
“Trust me, Texas,” I said. “You’re beautiful. Stanford soccer star. You’re gonna be just fine.”
Her eyes flickered.
