Page 83 of Hard to Hold

“Just enjoying the peace. It’s not often I get to sit and just be.”

“I understand that.”

I turn back to the surf and its crash coming in through the French doors we left open from our second-story bedroom. “So did your American car live up to the hype?”

“It did. There’s nothing like a fine piece of Americana planted firmly between your legs.”

“I’m thinking I should be offended by that comment.” I turn to him and lift a brow, and it’s met with a devilish grin.

“Not in the least, darling,” he says and then falls silent as his fingertips dance over the dimples in the small of my back. “It is stunning, isn’t it?” He adjusts the pillow beneath his head so he can sit up higher and enjoy the view. “Sunrises are my favorite.”

I go to speak and then close my lips as last night comes back to me. No one has ever given me sunsets before. Oh my God. Did I really say that? Did I really sound like a sappy Hallmark card while under the influence of wine, sex, and chocolate?

I cringe and hope maybe Rush was under the same influence, but know damn well he wasn’t. Instead, he gave me a speech about crowds and crowns that struck so many chords in me that I even had a ridiculous dream about riding some stupid chariot in the middle of a stadium where the crowd cheered when I lifted my crown.

Yes, Rush is messing with my head.

The question is, what am I going to do about it, because whether I want to admit to it or not, I’m okay with it. The panic and sudden arm’s length I hold men to when they get too clingy hasn’t happened yet.

I’m sure it’s coming.

It has to be.

“Johnny told me you lost your mum. Do you mind me asking how old you were?”

His directness shouldn’t surprise me by now, but it does. It’s a topic many people shy away from and when I turn to meet his eyes, there’s nothing but sympathy and compassion.

“I was thirteen.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I play it off like I always do with a shrug. “It was a long time ago.”

“Long time ago or not, it still hurts like hell. I was fifteen when I lost mine.”

“I had no idea.” Turning to face him, I reach out and take his hand, feeling like an ass for thinking about only myself. “I’m so sorry.”

“Like you said, don’t be.”

“Brain aneurysm,” I say about my mother’s cause of death. “Yours?”

“Cancer.”

My chest constricts at the thought. The one thing I’ve always felt lucky about is that my mother died quickly. There weren’t months on end where she suffered, or endless waiting for the inevitable. It was quick—unbelievably so—almost to the point that it was hard then and now for me to believe she’s gone.

But I can’t say that to Rush. I can’t be grateful for how mine died and then ask how long his suffered. I can’t tell him that any shrink would have a field day with me and say I probably have trouble forming attachments with men because the minute I feel anything beyond the superficial lust, I run to prevent more hurt.

And even though my mind processes that thought, I lie back down with him, my head on his chest, and both of us looking out toward the horizon beyond.

Fading memories fill my head and make me smile and long for my mother all at the same time.

“I always worry I’ll forget the sound of her voice. The smell of her perfume. The feel of her arms wrapped around me, her laugh.”

“You’ll never forget her. And just when you think you have, she’ll be in one of your dreams again, and you’ll experience her so you don’t. And you also have your dad to help remember for you.”

His words bring a bittersweet tear to my eye, and I think of the conversation I had with my dad a couple of weeks back about how much I was like my mother. “What about you? What do you miss about your mum?”

He runs a hand up and down my arm. “It’s been too long for me to miss anything. Too many things have overshadowed that time in my life.”