Sinful Desire (Sinful Nights, #2)(68)

She knew what he was trying to say. She felt it, too, inside her body, and deep into her heart. For the first time, the emotion lived in both places.





Chapter Twenty-Eight


“I have a confession to make,” Ryan announced, as he set two plates on the kitchen table then opened the cardboard box of pizza.

“Confess.” She held out her hand grandly, inviting him to talk – something he was increasingly enjoying doing with her.

He snagged a slice of the cheese pie that he’d ordered from Gigi’s, his favorite pizza shop, and placed it on Sophie’s plate. With the salad tongs, he scooped out some of the Caesar salad for her then for himself, too.

He sat down, joining her. “You already know my secret about being completely unable to cook.” He held up one finger to make a point—a point of self-defense. “Though I am unbelievably proficient at calling the pizza place.”

She nodded approvingly. “Gigi’s is the best in Vegas. I absolutely approve of your dinner choice. Cheese pie, Caesar salad, and a chardonnay.” She picked up her fork and dug into the salad first. “So, tell me.”

He took a bite of the cheese pie, rolled his eyes in pleasure, and pointed to his chipmunk cheeks to say wait just a moment. When he finished chewing, he made his confession: “I ate the peach pie you made.”

She smiled broadly then took a drink of her white wine. “I’m so happy to hear that. It’s my mother’s recipe. It’s divine, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly what my grandmother said about it. Divine.”

She tilted her head curiously, asking, “Your grandmother?”

“I brought it to her house after you gave it to me. I had some with her.”

Sophie’s blue eyes seemed to show her processing this information—that he was a man who brought pie to his grandmother. Maybe he’d made a strange choice to go see her last night, but it had made as much sense to him as anything had then. So he quickly added, “She told me that I should never give up a woman who could bake like that.”

Sophie raised her wineglass, a toast of sorts to his grandmother. “Smart woman. Sounds like you’re close to her?”

“Definitely. She and my granddad pretty much raised us after Mom went to…” He let his voice trail off.

Sophie nodded immediately, letting him know she understood. “And that brought you all closer, I imagine.”

“It did. I was almost fifteen when we moved in with her and my granddad, my dad’s parents. I guess that kind of thing can either rip you apart or bring you closer,” he said, more easily than he’d ever expected to be able to voice such words. Perhaps because the deadbolt was undone. The door was open, and the heavy weight of years of closeting secrets had lightened. His heart felt freer than it had in ages, his head lighter. Funny, how he’d never known that talking like this, to someone who wasn’t in the inner circle, would feel oddly peaceful. “In our case, mostly it brought us closer,” he said, and took another bite of his pizza, savoring the delicious cheese and the tasty crust.

She took a drink then asked, “Mostly?”

Yes, mostly. Because he knew exactly how his grandmother felt about his mother. The past’s hard grip resurfaced, like claws clamping down on his throat, and his newfound voice. The familiar urge to lock up his history kicked in. But he fought back. “I say that because she doesn’t know I actually visit my mom still.”

“Ah, I understand,” Sophie said softly. “I imagine it would be hard for her to accept that’s something you want. But it’s clearly important to you to see your mom.”

My God, it was like morning sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Talking to Sophie was lightness, it was patience, and it was safety. He barely had to explain a thing. She simply understood it all. She got it, and him. But he didn’t want Sophie to think he was a liar. “It’s not that I hide it from my grandma, per se. And I think she knows on some level, because she’s aware that I go there for Christmas and other times. But I don’t tell her about all the visits. I didn’t tell her I went earlier in the week, for instance. Or that I’m going again next weekend. Guess it just didn’t seem like something it was important for her to know.”

“How often do you visit?”

“I try to see her once or twice a month. Sometimes more, sometimes less.” He sighed heavily. “She gets her hours cut now and then because she acts up.”

“Acts up?”

He looked away, focusing on the steady breathing of his dog on the floor by an air conditioning vent, on the regular up and down motion of the Border Collie’s chest, his black and white fur fluttering lightly. “She’s not…,” he said, tapping the side of his skull. “She’s…” He let his voice trail off again. A lump rose in his throat. This was so hard to say. “She’s not all there,” he said, practically kicking the words past his lips.

Not only was his mother branded a murderer, not only was she the orchestrator of a gang-led shooting, she was also barreling down the path to insanity. He saw the evidence each time he visited her.

Sophie reached for his hand, threaded her fingers through his, and held on tight. “It all must be so hard,” she said softly, and then she quickly moved on. He could kiss her—for the segue and for knowing one was needed. “Who are you closest to among your siblings? I only have one, obviously, so it’s an easy answer for me. But you’ve got three. That must be a different story.”