Page 81 of Resist

I roll my eyes and slug him playfully . . . but the smile never leaves my lips.

Not when we eat our way through the stadium—arguing over the last bite of churro and which jalapeño was the hottest. Not when he stands up and cheers, arms up, grin wide, when the Sox get a three-run homer to go ahead. Not when I think of bringing up Roxanne’s visit to Apropos the other day but realize I don’t want to ruin the mood and the lightheartedness of our evening. Definitely not when my Yankees win by one run.

And not now, as Ryker and I sit across from each other in a hole-in-the-wall pub where the light is dim, the beer is darker, and no one cares who is sitting at the table in the back corner except for me . . . because my view of him sure is spectacular.

“So tell me something about you that is unexpected,” he says as he tilts his head to the side and just stares at me.

“I’m from Connecticut.”

“But you’re a Yankees fan?”

I smile and nod, uncertain why I chose this to tell him. “Yep.”

My phone alerts with an audible text and vibrates on the table. Ryker lifts an eyebrow when I don’t look at it. “That might be a hot date waiting for you.”

“Poor guy. Let’s not tell him I stood him up for a Red Sox fan.”

Ryker belts out a laugh as I glance down to my phone and see a text from Ella. Another request to buy Wicked Ways’ client list. Another desperate bid to sell it to her, but I know that I haven’t reached my goal yet.

“Please, do tell him. Then he’ll stop calling.” He reaches out and links his fingers with mine, and that small connection warms me in ways I never expected. “Where were we? Oh, right. I was asking if any of your family still lives in Connecticut?”

“Some of them.”

“That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“My sister and I left and never looked back.”

“That sounds like there is a story in there somewhere.”

I stare at him. At his easy demeanor and comforting smile, and I answer when normally I’d make an excuse as to why I can’t answer.

It’s a huge first step for me.

“We lived with my uncle in the Greenwich area. He was a professor, very well known in his field, very well off . . . and not exactly the nicest of people.” The words in Sam’s diaries flash through my mind. The memories I can’t completely recall resurface and make my skin crawl . . . and yet I continue. “Sam left the minute she could and took me with her.”

“That sounds very clandestine,” he jokes.

“If you’re asking if we left in a big hurry in the middle of the night, then yes.”

“What was the age difference?”

“Two years. She was older.”

“What about your parents?”

“My dad left when we were little. His excuse was that he didn’t think he’d ever live up to my mom’s parents’ standards. They were old money steeped in tradition, while he was blue collar without the tradition and pedigree they approved of.”

“So he just up and left?”

“Supposedly. Personally, I think it’s a BS excuse. If you have kids, you don’t give them up for a reason like that. You fight because they matter. You battle because they are everything to you.” He makes a noncommittal sound in response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing more than you’d be surprised what people walk away from when it comes to their families. Some people have a price that can be named—whether it be money or freedom or I don’t know—while others would fight tooth and nail to keep what’s theirs. There’s never a rhyme or reason . . . and I’m sometimes surprised at which person is the one who fights and which one walks away.”

“Does it jade you?”

“You can say that.” He chuckles, and there’s something that reverberates in the sound of it that tells me jaded is an understatement. “What about your mom?”

“She died in a car accident when I was seven.”