Dark Sexy Knight (A Modern Fairytale)(48)

“Your sweet place?” whispered Colt.

“My hugs and kisses and smiles and songs and ‘I love yous.’” She’d been looking at him as she made her list, but when she said the words “I love yous,” her cheeks flushed and she dropped his eyes. Softly she added, “My sweet place.”

“I like that.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “A lot.”

“Well, you can borrow it whenever you like,” she said, her grin back in full force as she took another sip of wine. “What about you? Who’s your sweet place? Your cousin? Melody?”

No. You. Every day I spend with you, you become my “sweet place,” sunshine. He wished he could say this to her, but he hesitated, afraid that such big words would scare her away. Instead he said, “She’s important to me, yeah.”

“Did you live here? With your aunt and uncle?”

He nodded. “My parents were in a car accident when I was ten. They died instantly.”

“No!” she cried, turning to face him and cringing with sympathy as she flattened her free hand over her heart.

“I was visiting here when it happened, so I just . . . stayed.”

He chose not to share that, just before the accident, his parents had left the restaurant where they’d just had dinner in a terrible hurry. According to the police, Colt’s father had gotten upset about something on the bill, picked a fight with the waiter, and belted him in the stomach when the waiter insisted it wasn’t a mistake. While the restaurant manager called the police, Colt’s father threw some money down on the table and pulled his wife out of the restaurant, dragging her out to the parking lot and speeding away like the devil was at his heels. Why? Because he’d already been arrested twice for assault, and a third charge would mean a significant prison sentence.

His father was racing away from the restaurant, probably looking in the rearview mirror, when a deer jumped in front of the car. He hit the deer and lost control of the car, driving off the rain-slick road, into a ravine, and smashing into a tree. Years later, when he read the coroner’s report, Colt was relieved to read that there was no way they could have survived the impact. They’d died instantly.

“God, Colton,” she said, taking several steps to stand before him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. It was . . .” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling out the black rubber band and placing it on the nightstand. “. . . bad.”

His father hadn’t been just a mindless brute of a man, though, which was the toughest thing about Colt’s memories of him: they weren’t black and white; they were gray. And gray was so much harder to understand or explain.

Yes, he remembered his father’s eyes going black with fury when something made him angry. And he remembered the times his father had laid into him—they weren’t exactly forgettable, though they were always followed by “Sorry about what happened” a few days later. But Colt remembered lots of happy times too: Dad ruffling his hair after a soccer game or asking him what flavor of ice cream he wanted at the Memorial Day parade. If Colt concentrated hard, he could still feel the touch of his father’s lips on his forehead when he kissed him good night and the deep rumble of his voice as he read a bedtime story. There had been a lot of bad moments, yes, but not all. There had been tenderness inside his father too, and that softness made it impossible for Colt to blindly hate him.

What actually hurt more was remembering his mother. She’d been a sweet, soft-spoken woman, gentle and kind, saddled with a husband and son who both got angry too quick, too often. His last memories of his mother’s face made his heart twist because she looked so sad and tired and old, like life had sucked every bit of joy from her soul. He’d blamed her for sending him away, and yet it ached to remember her. So mostly he didn’t. Mostly he tried not to think about his parents at all.

The bed depressed a little as Verity sat down beside him, her thigh about six inches away from his. “I can’t imagine,” she said gently. “My parents were old, and they weren’t real affectionate, but they cared for us until we were full-grown. I’m . . . I’m just so sorry, Colton.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking away from her legs and reaching for his wineglass. “They died a long time ago, and my aunt Jane, well, she was really amazing, so . . .”

She took a deep breath and sighed.

He did the same.

“Wow,” he said, “that conversation tanked quick.”

She turned her neck to look at him. “Do you want to talk about them? Your parents?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay. Then talk about something else. Quick.”

He flicked his glance at the TV. “What’s your favorite TV show?”

“Hmm. Well, Vikings is one of my favorites.”

“Right,” he said. “That’s how you knew that Vikings and knights were two different things.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, sipping the last of her wine. “I like Outlander too. And I loved Downton Abbey when it was on.”

“So, historical drama? That’s your favorite?”

She nodded. “I guess so. Yeah.”

“How about your favorite type of movie?” he asked.

She winced, giving him a sheepish little smile. “Romcoms?”