Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(70)

“I’m not some lying, manipulative—”

“Stop.” He kissed me again. “Know that’s not you. But I still buy the condoms.”

“Fine.” I huffed, stepping out of his hold and walking down the hallway to my bedroom. It hurt that he didn’t trust me enough to provide protection, that I was no different than any other woman he’d slept with.

“Don’t be mad.” Dash caught me in the hall, wrapping me in his arms. “Not saying any of this to hurt you. I just don’t want kids. Don’t see myself as a father. Never have.”

Why was I drawn to such an emotionally unavailable man? This wasn’t the first time I’d been with a man who was terrified of commitment. Why did I seem to find men who thought the idea of a family was a death sentence?

“It’s fine,” I muttered, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. It wasn’t his fault. He was only being honest. The problem wasn’t Dash. It was me. “I’m just tired.”

Emotionally and physically.

He let me go. “Let’s crash for a while.”

And forget this conversation ever happened. What did it matter if he didn’t want kids? We weren’t on that path, so it was best to forget this whole thing. Maybe this was more than just sex. But that didn’t mean we were a couple. I might be his temporary hiding place—that didn’t mean we had a future.

Dash followed me to the bedroom, and I climbed under the sheets, facing away from him. But instead of giving me my space, he took me in his arms, positioned me on his chest and stroked my hair until, bruised hearts and all, we both fell asleep.





We woke hours later as the sun streamed into the room, though neither of us made a move to get up. I stayed draped over his chest as his fingers drew patterns on the small of my back.

“I don’t know how I’m going to tell Nick,” Dash said into my hair.

“About . . .” Genevieve. I left her name unspoken, suspecting it would only irritate him. Dash wasn’t ready to learn about his half sister, wonderful as she was.

“Yeah. About . . . her.” He sighed. “Nick and Dad had this falling out after Mom died. Took years for them to work it out. The shit that happened, with Emmeline almost getting kidnapped, brought them back together. This will destroy them all over again. Dad’ll lose his son and his grandkids this time too. Nick won’t forgive him.”

I lifted up to see his eyes. They were golden in the dim light. Captivating. Sad. “Maybe before you call Nick, you should get the whole story.”

“No.” He frowned. “I can’t talk to Dad.”

“You will have to at some point.” Unless Draven went to prison for killing Amina. Then Dash might be able to avoid his father. But in the end, he’d regret it. “Don’t do it for him. Do it to get answers. And then you can decide what to do about Nick.”

He blew out a long breath. I expected him to take some time to think over my suggestion, but one moment I was sinking on his exhale, and the next I was being toppled to the side as he flew off the bed. “Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Now. And you’re coming with me.”

“Me? Why? I think it would be better if this was just you and your dad.” I’d already intruded on last night’s kitchen scene.

“You need to be there to stop me if I try to kill him.”

I shot him a glare. “Not funny, Dash.”

“Then . . . will you be there for me?” He held out a hand. “Please?”





Chapter Nineteen





Dash





“Is this the house where you grew up?” Bryce pulled into Dad’s driveway.

It wasn’t really the question she was asking. She wanted to know if this was where Mom had died.

I glanced at the sidewalk. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She put the car in park. “I thought maybe you would have moved. After . . .”

“No. Dad thought it would show weakness.”

Her mouth fell open. “What?”

“That’s what he told us anyway. But really, I think he stayed because he couldn’t fathom the idea of living somewhere else. He bought this house for Mom a few years after they were married.”

This was the house where they had loved. Where they’d brought Nick and me home from the hospital. Where they’d made our family.

The house was painted a soft green. The trim was maroon and matched the front door. Dad had had it repainted a few years ago because it was starting to chip. He’d told the painters to pick the exact same colors because those were the colors Mom had picked four decades prior.

“She’s in the walls,” I told Bryce. “The floors and rooms and hallways. That’s why he couldn’t leave. It’s not her house. The house is her.”

“He loves her.”

I nodded. “Above anything else, she was precious to him. At least, I thought so. Now . . . I’m not sure.”

Maybe I didn’t know Dad at all. The father I’d admired wouldn’t have cheated on his wife.

Why? It didn’t make sense. When Dad loved Mom so much, why would he take another woman? How could he do that to her?

We sat for a few moments because I couldn’t bring myself to reach for the handle on the door. I was so angry on behalf of my mother, who I missed every damn day.