A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(29)

I tap the key card against the sensor, and when the green light appears, I turn the handle and follow Queenie into her room.

Despite her having been here for only a handful of hours, it still manages to look like a tornado has been through it, much like her place in Seattle. Her suitcase lies open in the middle of the bed, the contents vomited all over the comforter. I spot the bras right away. Specifically the pink lace one. That I’ve taken off her body.

She drops the bags she’s holding on the floor and sets the takeout cup on the dresser, keeping her back to me. “Thanks for helping. I know it’s late and you have a big day tomorrow.”

Her shoulders curl forward and her body shakes like she’s trying and failing to repress emotion. I’ve seen a lot of tears over the years for a variety of reasons: jerk boyfriends, failed tests, the death of a grandparent, and, in my momster’s case, every single important and monumental milestone I’ve ever met. I’m not afraid of tears.

“Hey.” I rest a palm gently on her shoulder.

She tries to shrug me off. “Please. You don’t need to see this.”

“Queenie.” I gently urge her to turn around. When she finally does, I pull her against me and wrap my arms around her, dropping my head so I can breathe her in.

“What’re you doing?” she mumbles against my chest.

“Hugging you.”

“Why?”

“Because it seems like you could use one.”

Eventually she relaxes against me, and her arms encircle my waist, linking at the small of my back. She shudders through an exhale.

“What happened today?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You can talk to me.” I take her chin gently between my thumb and finger and tip her head up. I’ve never seen her this upset—or upset at all, really, apart from the night we first met, and even then she was more cynical than emotional. “Tell me what happened.”

Tears track down her cheeks, so I brush them away. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

She turns her head away. “Don’t be nice. Don’t be sweet.”

“Hey.” This time I’m not as gentle when I tip her head back. “Look at me.”

Her eyes flutter open and meet mine somewhat reluctantly.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” I ask.

“Because it makes me wish things were different.” There’s so much vulnerability in both the statement and her eyes that it makes me hesitate, but Queenie is guarded and strong and closed off all at the same time, and the only way to get in is to force my way through the walls she’s built to keep people out.

“What things? I’m right here. Just let me in. Tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

She seems despondent, frustrated, afraid. “My mom called.”

“I take it that’s a bad thing.” I know her mom bailed on her when she was a kid, and that their relationship has never been positive.

“We don’t speak often.” She bows her head. “She lives in LA. She knows the team is here, and she knows I’m working for my dad. She was trying to find out what hotel we’re staying at so she could drop by, even though I haven’t seen her in years. I told her I was too busy and so is my dad, which she didn’t like.”

“Did she get angry?”

Queenie lifts a shoulder. “It’s less about anger than it is about her being vindictive.”

“How so?”

Queenie sighs and her eyes drop, her focus on my chest. “She likes to tell me that I’m the reason she and my dad never worked out. That if I wasn’t so needy, he would’ve had the career and the life he deserved, and so would she, but I got in the way.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“In her mind it’s true. And maybe in some ways she’s right. I am the reason they’re not together. By the time my mom figured out she was pregnant, it was too late to terminate. She’d wanted to give me up for adoption, but my dad convinced her that they could do it together. She couldn’t handle being a mom, though. I guess she felt trapped, like she was missing out on all the fun of being nineteen, so when it got too real for her, she bailed on both of us.”

Queenie fidgets with my sleeve, shoulders slumped, eyes still on my chest.

“It’s just . . . a really toxic relationship, which is why I try to avoid her. But she called from a number I didn’t recognize, and I got sucked into the conversation with her. She gets into my head, and then it’s a big spiral. I should’ve hung up as soon as I realized it was her, but I didn’t, so I went out and bought a crap load of junk food because it’s good fodder for wallowing in doubt and self-loathing.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“This is what happens every time I talk to her. I keep hoping one day it’s going to be different, and it never is. What’s the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?” She blows out a breath and pats me on the chest. “And now you know how much of a mess I really am.”

“You’re not a mess, Queenie.”

“I’m my dad’s personal assistant, and I live in his pool house. When he was my age, he was raising a four-year-old on his own.”