“How did you end up in foster care?” She blanches, like she hadn’t known the words were going to come out of her mouth, at least, not so directly. “If that’s too personal, you don’t have to answer. Obviously.” She ducks her head and pushes some noodles around the edge of her plate before hurrying on. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked. Of course it’s too personal. Forget I said anything.”
It’s not the first time I’ve been asked this question. And from the moment I found her looking at my family photos, I’ve been mentally shoring up my defenses. I’m good at dodging personal questions. I’ve been doing it for years.
She glances up, and when I look into the depths of her soulful blue eyes, my defenses crumble.
No, that’s not right. They melt away. Because for the first time in my life, Iwantto tell this story. A part of me—the damn fool part—wants Scarlett to know my past. Believes she might understand.
It scares the hell out of me.
My heart slams against my rib cage, and I grip my chopsticks more tightly, forbidding my traitorous hands to shake.
When I finally speak, my voice is low and strained. I fucking hate it. “When I was five years old, my parents were driving me to T-ball practice.” I’d been pumped. We didn’t have much money, but they’d gotten me a new glove for my birthday, and I couldn’t wait to show it off to my friends. “Another driver crossed over the median and hit us head-on. My father died on impact. My mother passed that night from internal injuries. I walked away with nothing but a handful of stitches on my left shoulder.”
Scarlett gasps, her mouth twisted in horror.
That’s not even the worst part.
Later—much later—I learned the other driver had been texting. About fucking pizza. My parents died because some asshole wanted pineapple rings on his pizza.
White-hot rage courses through my veins, threatening to torch everything inside me.
I draw a measured breath, forcing it back into the box, where there’s no oxygen to feed that insatiable hunger.
“I’m so sorry, Nick.”
I nod. What else is there to say? We both know that words won’t fix what was broken that day.
“My parents were young, and they didn’t have any family.” None willing to take me in, anyway. “I went into foster care. Spent two years in the system before Mama Hart took me in.”
The two worst years of my life. Two years of not knowing when to expect the next slap or kick or punch, and whether it would come from a grown man or one of the other kids. I’d learned to protect myself quickly, but those years had been rough.
My parents’ love hadn’t prepared me for the harsh reality of being just another mouth to feed. A source of income. And far too often a scapegoat for one of the older kids. Not all the families were bad, but the good ones never seemed to last.
Every time I’d start to get comfortable, I’d have to pack up my bag and move on. Start all over. Prove myself again.
All of that ended when I came to Mama Hart’s house. It was an actual home, and she was determined to do right by us. Even if that meant she sometimes had to go without. She made sure we had three meals a day, warm clothes, and the perfect balance of discipline and love.
“Being raised in the system is difficult under the best of circumstances. That kind of instability, it makes it hard to excel at school. To make friends. To stay out of trouble.”
Because fosters are always easy targets.
“I take it you didn’t have the best of circumstances?” she asks quietly.
I shake my head. “If it wasn’t for Mama Hart, I’m not sure what would have become of me. I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting in a penthouse condo having dinner with a beautiful woman.” I rake a hand through my hair and exhale. “I’ve never told anyone that story before.”
Not even Ashley, which, as it turns out, was a good thing. She certainly didn’t need any additional fodder for the tabloids.
“Thank you for trusting me with it.” Scarlett leans forward and rests her palm on my thigh. Her touch is featherlight, but the heat of it sears my skin through the soft fabric of my sweatpants. Or maybe that’s my body igniting at her touch. “I know it wasn’t easy to share.”
We’re so close I can smell the heady scent of her floral perfume, feel her warm breath on my cheek. She seems to realize our proximity at the same time I do, because she does a slow blink, lashes fluttering. If it were anyone else, I’d think it was an attempt at seduction, but not Scarlett.
When she opens her eyes, her pupils are blown out. Wide. Excited. Aroused?
Does she feel the same undeniable pull of attraction?
Christ, I hope so.
My anger, and the lingering sadness from our conversation just moments ago, is obliterated. Replaced in this moment by desire. Desire to claim the incredible woman before me. To lose myself in her sweet softness for just one night.
