Page 59 of Break My Heart

I wince. “That wasn’t about you as much as it was my fear.”

Her face turns thoughtful before she asks, “So you decided to make certain I walked first?”

“I don’t think it was as conscious as that.”

“Then what was it?”

“It was fear.”

“Fear? You drive a race car at over two hundred miles per hour. I wouldn’t expect the word fear to be in your vocabulary.”

“It is. It’s the fear of being rejected.” My voice is laden with weight.

“What were you afraid of, Leo?”

“Are, not were.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“You coming to the same conclusion I was brought up believing.”

“Which is?”

“That I’m not good enough to be in your presence.”

Shock flares in her eyes when I don’t duck the question. I continue, giving her additional background while she considers what she’s already heard. “The family estate—Hawthorne Manor—sits on just under twelve thousand acres,” I continue. “Ashbourne Vale. Old stone. Older expectations.”

“Such as?”

“Being constantly measured up against those who walked there before you.”

“In other words, people who romanticize the past for their own purpose.”

“That’s part of the problem. The Hawthorne earldom has always been something I was measured up against.”

“In what way?”

“The title dates back to the 1700s. Military lineage. Land. Generations of men who understood exactly who they were supposed to be before they were old enough to question it.”

“What did that mean for you?”

“I wasn’t the one it was built for.” The words sit heavier now. “My brother is the heir. Viscount Raleigh from birth. Raised to inherit everything—the estate, the responsibility, the identity.”

“And you…?” Her glass lifts to her lips while she lets the question hang in the air.

“I was the spare.” I pause before admitting, “I haven’t spoken to any of them in ten years.”

Christin’s gaze sharpens. “Why?”

“Because I stopped being useful to them. There was no longer a need to remain their verbal punching bag when they had my brother, Albert, and then his son.” I swallow past the lump in my throat at my next words. “I don’t think I ever told you how I ended up in racing.”

Christin doesn’t interrupt. She simply waits. Something inside me eases. It’s remarkable how safe you can feel with the right person. “My parents didn’t care about me.”

The words sound absurdly clinical for something that shaped my entire childhood.

Her brows knit together. “What does that mean?”

“It means I was delegated.”