Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires, #2)(53)

I swear Declan consumes more food than an entire football team. If it weren’t for the fact that I manage his schedule so he can make time for working out, I would be concerned about the way he eats his way through my entire stash of snacks in less than four hours.

I hit the mute button, silencing the TV. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“You’ve watched eight episodes in a row of them doing the same exact thing.”

“And I could watch another eight more without ever getting bored.” I steal back my bowl of popcorn from his lap. There’s something calming about watching my favorite home improvement couple renovate dilapidated homes. The episodes are short and predictable, which makes them an easy choice when I’m feeling out of sorts.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I’m getting inspired.”

His brows pull together. “Don’t tell me you actually want to do this one day?”

“Of course I do. It looks like so much fun!” Well, at least most of it. I could do without the leaking roofs and sewer issues that seem to pop up out of nowhere.

“They found a family of mice in the last home.” The look of horror on his face makes me crack up.

“Nothing adopting a feral cat can’t fix.”

“I’m allergic to cats.” His nose wrinkles.

“Good thing you don’t have to worry about that then.”

“Why not?” His voice drops.

I laugh and return my attention back to the screen. “Because it’s going to be my house. If I want a pet cat, so be it.”

“Is my house not good enough for you?” His voice comes off flat, but his eyes are anything but.

Where did that question come from and why does his face look like I’m personally attacking him?

“Of course your house is good enough. For now, at least.”

“For now,” he repeats back with a dry voice.

“It’s not like we planned on me living there forever.”

“I know that.”

“You have a very nice house,” I backtrack.

“Not nice enough,” he mutters under his breath.

Is he actually offended by my comments? The idea alone makes my chest clench. Declan isn’t the kind to get offended by anything, but I suppose if I invested twenty million dollars into a home, I wouldn’t want to hear negative comments about it either.

I dance between being honest and polite. “It’s just that…it’s not my style.”

“And what exactly is your style then? A forest?”

My chest shakes as I release a loud laugh. “No.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“Your place is empty, cold, and devoid of any kind of personality. It might be a house, but it’s the furthest thing from a home.”

He strokes his stubbled cheek. “That makes no sense.”

“Let me try to explain.”

“By all means, please do.”

I take a deep breath, considering how I can explain such a dark part of my life without diving too deep into my emotions. Declan only knows bits and pieces of my past. Revealing too much could open myself up to growing closer to him, and that’s the last thing either of us needs.

“My parents’ divorce wasn’t the most conventional.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

Declan doesn’t so much as breathe as I gather up the courage to continue.

“My father—if you can even call him that—was not a good guy. He was…mean.” That feels like the understatement of the century, but I can’t find it in me to say more than that.

Declan’s hands clench against his lap. “Was he mean to you?”

I sigh. “Yes. But not nearly as bad as he was to my mom.”

His upper lip curls with a look of disgust. “Don’t do that.”

My brows tug together. “Do what?”

“Downplay your experience because someone else had it harder than you.”

I’m touched by his comment. I spent my whole life telling myself how things could have been worse. I’ve seen the stats on domestic violence. The way the vicious cycle continues until someone gets severely hurt, or worse, dies. Dealing with my father’s anger and hateful words seemed like a small price to pay for the future I have now. For the one my mother has too.

Wetness pools at the bottom of my eyes, and I’m quick to blink it away.

Get a hold of yourself.

I muster up a deep breath and carry on, reminding myself of the whole point of this conversation. “Anyway…my mom and I moved out of my childhood house with two suitcases and a thick wad of cash she spent a whole year saving up. She tried her hardest to sell me on the idea of moving into a shoebox apartment with Nana. I spent a whole week crying, telling her I wanted to go home.”

“What happened next?” He seems genuinely interested in hearing more, so it fills me with enough courage to continue.

“She taught me how anyone can buy a house, but not everyone can buy a home. With a house, you can buy it, sell it, renovate it.” I point at the TV.

“But a home is more abstract. It’s not a place, but a feeling I can’t describe, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“A feeling,” he repeats back with a monotonous voice.