More Than I Could (41)

Apparently.

But as I watch him across from me and absorb the kindness and consideration he’s projecting, I don’t want to clam up and walk away. So I talk.

“Before we lived in Dallas, we lived in a tiny town in West Texas,” I say. “We moved from there when I was sixteen—partially because the kids were awful.”

“Makes sense. Kids can be cruel.”

“Yeah. They can.” I take a deep breath and try to harness the words and courage to keep going. With every second that passes, the more time I have to let the self-doubt slip in. “I don’t know … this feels so stupid.”

“That’s funny.”

I quirk a brow. “Funny? Why?”

“It’s funny because it’s impossible for you to feel stupid. If you feel something, it’s justified. It might not come from a logical place—maybe it comes from anxiety. But that doesn’t make it stupid.”

I grin. “There you go, being all logical again. I thought we said no romance.”

He chuckles.

However, his explanation and demeanor resonate in my soul. He’s right—something I’m slowly learning is typical. And the more I consider this, and the longer I stand in front of him, the more I want to share my truths.

Not for him. For me.

“My mom …” I exhale sharply, an anxious energy bubbling in my stomach. “She had no one to help her, to watch out for her. And anyone that she did have was gone as soon as she turned eighteen. She had nowhere to go, you know?”

Chase frowns but doesn’t say anything.

“She participated in some … questionable behavior,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Illegal behavior unless you’re in Nevada, and we weren’t.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. And we lived in a small religious town that was quick to judge her. A young woman with no money, no family, no one who gave a shit. No food, no shelter—no anything. None of them offered to help her, mind you. They just wanted to make sure she knew she was a terrible person for doing what she had to do to survive.”

Chase’s jaw tenses.

“I was born,” I say, my voice wavering. “By the grace of God, she got herself together. And she was a damn good mother. She was there. Present. She loved me every day of my life, and we might not have had much, but I never once had to question if I was the most important thing in the world to her.” I blink back tears. “But that didn’t matter because she’d already been deemed fit for hell by the saints in town.”

“And you inherited that.”

“And I was shamed and dirty because of it.”

Tears wet the corners of my eyes as I remember the terrible things I was called. The jokes made at my expense. The pranks pulled on me because I wasn’t popular. The parties I wasn’t invited to, the girls who couldn’t stay all night at our house, and all the friendships that failed as soon as their parents realized who I was.

And how horrible that must’ve been for my young, struggling mom—to watch the child she loved more than the world be bullied because of her choices. That she had to make.

What did those people want from her? Would they have rather she died? Was she supposed to afford housing, food, and medical bills from the money she received from the jobs no one would hire her to do? How was she supposed to leave town with a bag of ratty clothes to her name?

When I think about what I experienced, it hurts. But it breaks my heart when I think of what my mother endured.

Chase goes to the table and gets his plate. He cleans it and places it in the dishwasher without saying a word. Then he pops on the light above the stove and flips off the main kitchen light.

“We better get to bed,” he says. “Morning comes fast.”

I dip my chin, slightly embarrassed that I might’ve delayed his bedtime with my sob story, and head to the doorway. But before I can walk past him, he reaches for my arm.

His hand easily encompasses my bicep. His grip is gentle yet firm. It’s as if he wants me to know that I could pull away if I chose to, but also that he’s here.

It’s the intentional part of the gesture that gets me.

My breath halts in my lungs as I peer into his eyes.

“I’d love to see what those girls would say about you now,” he says, his tone husky. “You’re successful and intelligent. Funny and a bit irritating. And beautiful as hell.”

I gasp, I know I do, but I can’t stop it.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks quietly.

I nod. It’s all I can do.

“I’m glad I walked in on you talking to your friend, and it wasn’t you walking in on me talking to one of my brothers,” he says.

“Why?”

He grins. “Because I would’ve been talking about a whole lot more than your fucking teeth.”

I snort, pulling my arm away. A rush of relief exits my body. How natural was his transformation from an attentive listener, which is what I needed, to a borderline jerk. Somehow, I’m extremely grateful for that.

“My fucking teeth? Or fucking my teeth?” I ask, making him laugh. “Your response will really dictate how the next few weeks go.”

He continues to chuckle and heads down the hallway. He motions for me to follow.

I watch his back flex as he heads to the stairs in front of me. The muscles are glorious—enough to make me pant. But now I know for certain that Chase Marshall has a sweet layer inside. And I think that might be even better.