Breaking Her (Love is War #2)(2)

Lately, the feeling was stronger than ever. Consuming. Debilitating.

"Just Anton," Anton finally corrected Demi's niece, bringing me out of my musings and back to the present.

Anton's day drunk was starting to show in the form of delayed reactions.

"My mommy and Aunt Demi told me it's rude to address an adult by just their first name."

Anton and I exchanged a glance. How strange it must be to be a child with so many adults around that cared about every little nuance of your life.

"How about Uncle Anton?" she tried. "That counts."

He'd been taking a drink of water when she said that, and he started to choke at her words.

It made me smile, probably the first time I'd done so in days.

Finally he managed to get out a scratchy, "Mister Anton is just fine."

She nodded and bestowed a very charming smile on him.

"What's that?" she asked me, pointing to the giant bottle of Patrón.

"Grownup stuff," I told her, assuming that would settle it.

"Can I try some?"

I made a face at her that made her giggle. "Are you a grownup?"

"Yep," she said quickly.

"Grownups are at least twenty-one years old. Are you twenty-one?" I asked pointedly.

"Yep," she quipped back, the brazen little liar.

"Uh uh," I said.

She nodded at the oven. "Can I have some of those when they're done?"

I shrugged. "I guess."

"Auntie Farrah said you don't like kids. Why don't you like kids?"

"Because they ask too many questions."

"Like what?"

"Exactly."

"Why else don't you like kids?"

"Because they're selfish and mean," just sort of slipped out.

Her eyes widened, watered a bit, and I saw that I'd taken the teasing too far.

"You think I'm selfish and mean?" she asked, voice tremulous, like the very idea might make her cry.

Dammit. "No." I actually meant it. "Not you. I can just remember . . . other kids . . . that were," I finished lamely.

"If you don't like kids, how come you bake me something nummy every time I come over?"

I mulled that one over. I did. I literally baked every time she came over, no exceptions. What the hell was up with that?

"It's a coincidence," I told her. "I bake all the time." That was a lie, but she was eight.

If you couldn't lie to an eight-year-old, who could you lie to?

She beamed at me. "You like me. I knew it."

I curled my lip at her and she giggled. "You're alright," I allowed.

"I like you," she offered. "You're really pretty, and you smell nice."

Dammit. Damn Demi and her incorrigible, likable niece. "You're really pretty, too," I begrudgingly returned.

She acted like I'd made her day with that, doing an enthusiastic happy dance that involved a lot of twirling and hand waving.

Was she trying to win me over, or was she really this freaking adorable?

I didn't know, but in spite of myself, I was charmed.

Still, I'd never let her close, never let myself get attached to a kid like that. Even the thought of it spun my mind into dark, fathomless places that I knew well to steer clear of.

Luckily, they all left for a day at the zoo soon after that, and I was spared much more of Olivia's infectious charm.

And dammit, she almost convinced me to come with them. If I had been about two shots more sober or three more drunk, she'd have had me.

Nearly as bad, I packed them a cute little care package full of brownies like I was Betty f*cking Crocker.

Of course Anton gave me shit for it. I couldn't blame him.

I shut his teasing up with another shot. It was a sore spot, but in all fairness, lately every damn spot on me was sore.

It was some time later that my phone rang. I was at functioning, non-slurring levels, my day drink game strong. Anton was putting up a good fight, the only signs of how messed up he was, was that he was over-enunciating, and his comeback time was slowing from whip-fast to slightly below average.

I glanced at my lit phone face and grinned wickedly.

It was bloodthirsty, so much so, Anton, even slowed Anton, caught on fast.

"It's him, isn't it?"

I chewed my lip and nodded.

He meant Dante. Of course. Since the funeral and the disaster that followed, he called often, and sometimes I'd answer. It was a toss-up with me whether I'd chew him out or just hang up.

Sometimes he called to discuss what Gram had left me in her will, but I'd have none of it. "I told you, give it to one of her charities. I don't want anything. I won't take anything." I'd never once let him finish his sentence when he brought this up. I'd been called a Durant charity case my whole life, but I'd be damned before I'd become one.

Sometimes he just asked me how I was. Like he just wanted to talk, to check up on me. As if he had that right. The bastard.

Those calls ended nearly as quickly as the first kind.

The worst shame of all this was the angry five minutes I spent getting myself off afterwards.

I wasn't sure if it was a comfort or a curse that I was absolutely sure the bastard was doing exactly the same.