Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(42)

“I bet they hated that.”

“Probably.” I smile at the memories that hit me, one after another, and am grateful that he allows me the silence to just close my eyes and think of her. “What about you? Tell me about your parents.”

“Nothing much to tell other than what you already know.”

“Where is your dad? What does he do?”

“He’s down in Palm Beach, Florida. He’s an angel investor in companies.” He sighs. “I don’t know—we’re not really that close. After my mom took him to the proverbial cleaners in their divorce, he bailed. I spent vacations and summers with him . . . and whenever my mom deemed that she needed less responsibility, I guess.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known. Him gone and her falling in love, then out of love, and then the drama of a divorce. The woe is me as she collects another hefty check in her divorce settlement, only for her to do it all over again.”

“Were any of your stepdads nice to you?”

“They all were nice to me. More tolerant than nice, really,” he says, so matter-of-fact, and my heart breaks for the little boy who I can imagine was always trying to fit in an ever-changing landscape. “But they were moguls in their own minds. One owned some restaurants, one was a developer, like I said. One was a capital investor, and one was connected to the Vanderbilts somehow. None of them had time for a son.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I figured shit out after a while. I knew when to be absent, how to play the part for dinner parties, and how to be used as a pawn when my mother needed something.”

“That’s so wrong.” And the opinion he had of women when we first met makes so much sense now.

“It is what it is. Now”—he pulls me in tighter against him—“can we get off this topic? I didn’t take you on a romantic date on the Hudson to talk about my boring childhood.”

But it was anything but boring. Sad and lonely, I’m sure, but not boring.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything.”

“When I was little, the town we lived in used to have this wish lantern festival,” I say, pulling the memory out of the blue.

“Wish lantern?”

“They’re the paper lanterns like—” Like the ones in the movie Tangled. But I don’t finish the thought because there is no way he’s watched Tangled before. “Like the ones you light, and then after the hot air fills them, they float into the sky.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about.”

“Anyways, we used to have this festival, and people would write their wishes on them or their worries, and the theory was that once they floated into the sky, their wish would be granted or their worry would be taken away.”

“That’s a cool concept.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What made you think about that right now?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I was looking at the Hudson, and it reminded me of watching the lanterns fly high above the Atlantic after they were lit and let go.”

“If you could have one of each right now, what would they be?”

“They don’t come true if you tell anyone,” I lie.

“Nice try, Sanders. If you’re writing the words on the lantern, then everyone can see your wish and your worry anyway.”

“You’re a pain, you know that?”

“The best kind of pain,” he jokes and presses a kiss to my temple. “Your wish and your worry?”

So many flit through my mind that I am too cowardly to give voice to. Getting my teaching credential. Starting a charity for kids with Downs. But I know none of those will ever be able to happen if I don’t take care of a few things first.

“My wish would be to finally adopt Lucy. My worry? I have too many worries to pick just one.” Another lie, but the last person I want to bring up tonight is the senator and wishing that he’d leave me alone and be out of my life. “What about yours?”

“My wish would be for you to stop holding back from me. And my worry . . . my worry would be that the senator doesn’t stop obsessing over you.”

Silence hangs heavy between us, and I don’t speak, afraid to ruin what’s left of our date.

But it’s not lost on me that both his wish and his worry have to do with me.



“You sure it’s okay for you to stay here?” Ryker asks as he unclasps his watch from his wrist and sets it on the dresser.

“If you’re asking if I need to call home to ask my parents if it’s okay if I spend the night at a boy’s house, I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.” I bat my eyelashes and offer him a coy smile.

He lifts his eyebrows and grants me a smile. “Where were girls like you when I was a teenager with an empty house for weeks on end?” he teases.

“I shudder to think of the trouble you got yourself into.”

“You have no idea,” he says with a shake of his head and a knowing chuckle. I picture him as a teenager. No doubt handsome, definitely privileged, and most likely lonely. He probably lost himself in girls and sports and pushed everyone away or held them way too close.

I watch the man he is now from my seat on the edge of his massive bed as he pulls the henley over his head and tosses it into the hamper. His broad shoulders and the defined muscles of his back are on display. His trim waist leads down to his very fine ass, perfectly framed by the denim covering it.