The First Taste(71)

He snorts. “Then you’re stronger than I am.”

“Am I?”

“Emotionally, yes. But physically?” He leans forward as he pulls me back toward him to speak in my ear. “I’d love the opportunity to kick . . . his . . . ass.”

His warm breath tickles in just the right way. “So would I.”

“I’m not kidding.”

I turn back as much as I can. “Is that so?”

He tucks some loose strands behind my ear. “I’m not a boy who goes to some fancy office during the day and thinks it’s okay to dick my woman around. I’m a man, Amelia. I treat women like treasure. I treat my girlfriend like the love of my f*cking life. And I treat an * like an *.”

The intensity in his voice raises every hair on my body. I can’t resist picturing it. Andrew and Reggie face to face would be terrifying in real life, but maybe, in my fantasy, it can be a little thrilling too. “How does an * get treated?”

“If he ever comes around while I’m here, he’ll leave knowing it’s his last visit.”

It feels like the only thing I’ve ever wanted to hear, but my self-doubt is never far, and I know once Andrew leaves, he won’t come back. He won’t be around the next time Reggie shows up. “You’re sweet.”

“I just threatened to kick some ass, and I’m sweet?” I hear the smile in his voice. “Are you trying to shred my ego?”

I don’t believe Andrew is all talk—I think he really believes he’d do it. He seems to have temporarily forgotten about Bell, though. Devoted dads don’t go around taking risks like that. “What about Shana?” I ask. “Am I now expected to say I’ll make her pay too?”

He grunts good-naturedly. “Nah.”

He doesn’t offer anything else. It occurs to me I don’t know much about Shana, at least not the specifics. Is it that I haven’t asked? Or that he hasn’t offered? “How long has it been since she left?”

“Almost four years. Right around Bell’s third birthday.”

“That must’ve been awful.”

“Well. You know.”

I shift, and the tub squeaks. Andrew has no problem pressing me for information on Reggie, but he doesn’t seem as keen to share himself. I’ve given him a lot tonight, though. “What was it like? When she left? What about Bell?”

“Come here.” I lean back against his chest, and he puts his arms around me. “It was pretty much how you’d imagine. I was clueless. Sadie helped as best she could from an hour away.”

“What about your parents?”

“They’re closer, about fifteen minutes from here. But they’re not that involved.”

“By choice?”

“It’s mutual. I mean, not so much for my mom. She wants to see Bell more. I just hated growing up there, and I don’t really want Bell to get too close to them.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs under me. “They’ll just disappoint her.”

“Isn’t that what parents do?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I realize my mistake. “Not all parents, obviously. Not you.”

“It’ll be a while before we know, won’t it?”

I furrow my brows. “No,” I say. “There’s no question. Bell is so fortunate to have you as a dad.”

“I do my best.” He clears his throat. “How’d your parents disappoint you?”

I run my hand over his arm, admiring the fine dark hair. “It’s the other way around. I didn’t go to business school. I’ll be divorced at thirty-two. I barely talk to them or my niece and nephew because I’m so swamped with work. It’s not exactly the conservative Texan way my sister went.”

“You’re from the South?”

“Yep. I think they hoped I’d move home at some point and marry a nice, upstanding lawyer, doctor or banker . . . like Reggie, actually.”

“Don’t tell me they were fans of his.”

“My mom loved him before she’d even met him. I should’ve known then it was doomed. When I told her I was leaving him, she nearly had a heart attack.”

“Because he cheated on you?”

“Lord, no,” I say. “That’s not an excuse to leave. It’s an ‘opportunity.’ She thinks I should identify how I’ve neglected my husband and step up as a wife.”

“Fuck that,” he says.

“Yeah. Exactly. Fuck that.” I follow it up with a sip of Glenlivet. The words taste just as good as the whisky. “She would hate you.”

He laughs. “Blue collar mechanic from New Jersey with an illegitimate child, a motorcycle, and tattoos? Can’t imagine why.”

“That’s not what I see.”

“No?” he asks, nuzzling my cheek. “What do you see?”

I pause. “A loving father who takes control of his life. An artist.”

“I’m an artist?”

“I think you are.” He is, at least, a work of art, his inky black hair, his skin a parade of vivid imagery, his muscles as sculpted and perfected as a masterpiece. I may have called him a mechanic our first night together, but his garage is clearly important to him, and if he treats cars like anything else he loves, I’d bet he brings a certain artistry to his craft.