The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(22)

“And I’m standing here facing off with another one, the prideful one, the one who’s too fucking vain to reach out when she needs to reach out.”

Uh . . .

EXCUSE ME?

What in the hell was up his ass?

I shifted into his space, getting up on my toes to get in his face.

“And you’ve known me for seven months, and I can assure you, Tobias Gamble, you do not know me enough to call me vain. Let me correct you, the last thing on this earth I am is vain.”

He stood toe to toe with me, tipping that bearded chin down, which was all he had to do to lock eyes with me and get right in my face, which ticked me off (more), and shot back, “So, I learned what I learned on Wednesday night, and I don’t believe for a fuckin’ second it’s all good, just single mom shit, and I told Margot you were struggling and she pressed lookin’ after Brooklyn for you, and you would not lose your mind at me?”

“Of course I’d lose my mind at you,” I hissed. “That would be totally out of line.”

“And would it be totally out of line I shared with your own damned sister your shit was fucked, and she looked after you by lettin’ you live at her place or whatever Iz would do, and we both know Iz would do something to look after you?”

My big sister had looked after me enough.

My whole life, precisely.

So strike that off my list of things I could do to get out of my bind. I wasn’t going to ask Izzy to do dick.

“Yes, that would be totally freaking out of line too,” I clipped. “But just to be clear, that would be more out of line.”

“So, what? You’re gonna tough it out? Eat cat food and screw your credit by goin’ late on bills while Brooks is cush in a daycare center people who work in the city use because they make big bill in the city and expect cush for their kids while they’re off making it?”

“Yes.” My voice was rising.

“And you’d do that stupid shit even if you got folks who’re happy to look out for you?”

“That’s what mothers do,” I retorted.

“That’s what you do,” he fired back.

“You don’t know what it is to be a mother, Toby. I do, and I know what my mother did, and she did just that.”

Now my voice was totally rising.

“Yeah. I know. I heard. But Daphne didn’t have a choice. She didn’t have anyone she could turn to to help her look out for her and her girls. I didn’t know the woman. Never had the honor. Just heard stories. But my take, she’d be all in if someone had been there to give her babies better. Not you. Using your mom and her hardship as your shield to face the world alone and not give better to your kid, that better bein’ lookin’ after you.”

It was like he’d slapped me in the face.

And I stepped away from him like he’d done just that.

He bore down on me again anyway, taking away the minimal space I gained to demand, “How deep is your shit?”

“That’s not your business.”

“How deep is your shit, Adeline?” he pushed.

I got up on my toes and screeched in his face, “That’s not your business!”

“I was fuckin’ you, it’d be my business,” he growled.

I blinked and fell back to flat footed.

He didn’t appear to notice that either.

“Christ, you know how much sleep I’ve had since hearin’ you’re broke at Christmas?”

“No,” I whispered.

“None, babe. Not a fuckin’ wink.”

What?

“How you gonna buy Brooks presents?” he asked.

“I . . . I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

“Right,” he snarled.

“Toby—”

“You can sell a hundred goddamn cards at Macy’s and that’s not gonna do dick for you,” he bit out.

How did he know I was selling cards at Macy’s?

I didn’t get to ask that.

Toby kept at me.

“Johnny’s loaded. Dave and Margot are not hurtin’, they’re retired, and they got nothin’ to do except keep their hearts and minds young. And newsflash, Addie, havin’ a baby around might help them do that. And seein’ as I’m equal owner of Gamble Garages, I’m fuckin’ loaded too. You’re surrounded by people who wanna look out for you and got the time and means to do it. And you’re sellin’ fuckin’ flower cards to save face.”

They weren’t flower cards.

Well, some of them were but I didn’t think that was what they were called.

And I wasn’t doing it to save face.

Was I?

“They’re sweet cards,” I snapped.

He tore his fingers through his hair, it was thick and there was lots of it, and if he didn’t slick it back with some kind of product, the front would probably fall to his chin.

Though the back was clipped short at the neck, it was long enough and tapered as it went up, the curls started to form, which was tragically appealing considering it looked amazing but it was clear you could fist your fingers in it, and that didn’t bear contemplation.

Especially not when I was having a public fight with him on the sidewalk in town wearing my kickass army-green bomber jacket over my stupid grocery store smock.