Marry Screw Kill(79)

Sure, he kisses me on my cheeks and forehead, like he would a sister or friend, but I want the kisses stored up for a lover. Like the passionate ones he trailed across my neck where my knees gave away.

Each night we lie in the darkness of the hotel room, tension hovers in the air from our suppressed desires. A want so thick, it presses against my skin.

I bring my hand to my face at the memory and try to will back the sensation of his touch, but the feeling never comes. Nothing can replace his lips.

At first, I asked him why he hasn’t kissed me again. He claimed it’s too soon for us to be together and I need time to heal from the past few months, find out who I really am again without trying to please a man.

But don’t we want to please those we care for? And I care for him in unsettling ways, which scares me, mostly since he’s leaving me in a few days to head back to Manhattan. I push the thought away and try to live in the moment. It may be all we have together.

I take a deep breath and savor his delicious scent. His arms tighten around me and I wonder if he’s starting to wake up too.

“Hmmm.” His chest vibrates beneath my cheeks. Yes, he’s up.

“Morning.” My voice is muffled thanks to his hard chest.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Like a baby.”

“My baby, right?”

“Yes, yours,” I say, because I truly am.

“Maybe we should hit the showers.” He stirs, but I move in closer, not ready to leave the comfort of his side.

“How about we do the shower thing together?” I tease, knowing the answer before he even responds.

“Soon,” he sighs. “But for now, ladies first.” I rise off the bed and stick my tongue out at him, showing how mature I am. At least it makes him laugh.

***

Sin and I shower and then stop at the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I watch him consume a mile high stack of pancakes. He uses so much syrup, they are floating on the plate. Disgusting.

“Quit wrinkling your nose at me,” he says while stuffing half a pancake in his mouth.

“How can you eat all that sugar?” I give him a pointed stare.

“At least I’m eating.” He puts down his fork and reaches across the table to take my hand. Sticky syrup coats his fingers.

“I’m fine.” I look down at my uneaten breakfast.

He releases my hand and picks his fork back up. After spearing a pancake bite, he soaks it in the syrup. “Now, open up.”

I roll my eyes, but open my mouth. After a few chews, I swallow. I hate to admit it, but all the syrup tastes divine. Like a little birdie, I open my mouth again and he feeds me more.

“It’s good to see you eating.” He wipes the corner of my mouth with his napkin. “Even if you’re messy.” I roll my eyes again, and that simple act feels so good. I can express my likes and dislikes with Sin. He’s helped me learn that is how it should be.

“The butterflies in my stomach haven’t stopped since Margaret gave me the card from Thomas.”

Thomas Bradley was the man looking for my mother. Sin and I have been researching him online. We found a massive amount of information about him, which leads me to one conclusion: Thomas wasn’t your average Joe. He wasn’t even above average. He was money-falling-out-of-his-pockets loaded, since his family owned a large financial firm in Chicago.

Thomas was ten years older than my mother and graduated from the Chicago University School of Business at the top of his class. Everything I read about him would make any mother proud. Not to mention the photos of him that popped up.

He had the looks of a movie star—tall and handsome, with blue eyes as crisp and bright as a cloudless sky. It’s the one trait of his I share, but his complexion was dark for someone with such light eyes.

After graduation, he joined his father’s company and became a partner. But his life took a sad turn. Like my mother, I can only speak about him in the past tense because he left this earth not long after he spoke with Margaret.

All I can uncover about his death is a lengthy obituary and complimentary article in the business section of the Chicago Times. The article says he fought a long battle with cancer, but I have no idea what kind. When people say wealth can’t buy health or happiness, it is true.

At this point, I have no idea if he was my father. Nothing links him directly to my mother. I can only speculate. Margaret asked if I wish I could have met him before he died, but I don’t know the answer.

If he was my father, part of me is curious to know what he was like, but he rejected my mother and me before I was born. It’s a harsh fact I can’t easily overlook, especially on my mother’s behalf. She struggled to keep me clothed and fed while he lived a life of luxury.

I will not hold a grudge of bitterness and anger, though. Feeding those emotions will rot away the good ones my mother filled me with—happiness, contentedness, no matter how little one has. Those are her legacy to me.

I’ve had only one nightmare about the night she died since I left Rochester. Perhaps the first step in putting the past behind me was leaving there, and I have no plans to return.

Margaret has opened her arms and home, already preparing the guest room for me. I plan on moving in with her after Sin goes back to New York City. It’s the only thing keeping me from freaking out about him leaving.

We leave the hotel and swing by Margaret’s house to pick her up. Sin is driving us to Thomas’ private attorney for a meeting. He contacted the number on the business card Thomas left and connected to the attorney’s office. We weren’t given any details about the meeting aside from discussing Thomas’ will and my mother.