Thin Love (Thin Love, #1)(119)

Keira’s the girl he pushed away all those years ago, the one he tried to convince himself he hated. She’s the same girl, aged—time and struggle maturing her with sensuality, confidence. Breaking through all that devastation and anger is the desire to pull her against him and slam his mouth over hers, but it is faint and is completely eradicated by the memory of the boy who could be his clone running through the Market.

Kona doesn’t speak to her when she offers him a smile. He doesn’t return the smile either. He just steps back, walks her to the sofa in the sitting room.

If the years have taught him anything, it was patience and control. You can’t be a hot head and expect to play with penalties and fines racking up. The NFL forced Kona to mature, to level his anger into calculated reasoning. And it was that reasoning that Kona draws on now as he sits opposite Keira in the recliner. He is relaxed, calm, his elbow on the armrest and his fingers covering the hard frown on his face. He doesn’t move them when he speaks, is content to keep his demeanor mildly cold.

“You want a drink?” he says, eyes boring into hers and he feels slighted that she won’t look directly at him. “There’s Scotch, I think beer in the fridge.”

“No. I’m good.” Her voice is soft, polite and her posture is ramrod straight as she fidgets with the straps of her purse.

Good. Be nervous, he thinks.

But he can’t take the tension, the awkward way that she examines the room, her fingernails, the view from the balcony behind him. He needs a distraction, something to keep him level and calm and Kona doesn’t bother to look at her when he walks to the bar to his left and quickly makes himself another drink.

“Got a lot of questions,” he finally says, staring at the picture above the bar—Jackson’s statue in the Quarter at night, the old war hero’s head silhouetted against a bright moon. Another sip, deeper than the last and Kona turns, leans against the bar and crosses his feet, swirling the ice in his glass as he watches Keira. Her eyes narrow, run up his legs, over his hips and come to rest on his hands. Still, she won’t look at his face.

“I’m sure you do,” she says, leaning back against the sofa. She rests her temple against her fist and looks down as though she’s bored, as though she’s ready to take whatever punishment he has for her.

Kona forgets his drink, leaves it behind him on the bar and doesn’t care that her back stiffens when he sits next to her. “What’s his name?”

She seems surprised about his first question and he guesses that it is odd, that it came before “how could you?” and “why?” but it seems best to start out small.

“Ransom. He’ll be sixteen at the end of July and he—”

With Kona’s uplifted hand, Keira goes quiet. “You wanna say that again?”

For the first time Keira gives him an effortless smile, as though his surprise at hearing her son’s name is expected, something she’s heard more than once. “Luka Ransom Riley.”

Kona threads his fingers together, an effort to stop himself from touching her. There are emotions that overwhelm him; thoughts and questions that run through his mind like a wave; confusion, gratitude, disappointment. “You named him for…” he can’t finish the thought. He won’t. His twin, that loss, it is something Kona tries never to think about. He refuses to acknowledge what his brother’s death had done to him; what it continues to do to him.

“Luka was a good man, Kona, and his death was senseless.” Keira turns, moves her arm along the back of the sofa, her hair brushing back, sending the sweet scent of jasmine straight into Kona’s nose. “I couldn’t give Ransom your name so I did the next best thing.” Keira looks to her left, to the chandelier above the dining table, but Kona doubts her thoughts are on the ornate fixture. “He was the price I paid for walking away from my life here. He was the ransom for everything I could have had.” When Keira looks back at him, that small quirk on her mouth is faint, barely there. “It was a price I’d pay a hundred times over, Kona.” He holds that stare and tries not to let his mind wander to the gray flecks in her eyes or the determined set of her fine chin. And then, when Kona remains silent, when his gaze lingers, Keira turns away, breaks the small spell that caught between them in those quick seconds. “He’s an A student, spends most of his summers building houses with Habitat.” She scoots up, mimics him by resting her elbows on her knees. “He’s a great kid, an old soul and he doesn’t know you’re his father.”

He watches her, sees the worry, the fear again and some small measure of his anger leaves him.

“What have you told him about his father?”

“Not much.” Kona hates that she sits back. He hates that she’s retreating away from him; in the next moment, he curses himself for caring that she is. Keira’s shoulders relax, but she fiddles with the seam on the back of the sofa, running her fingernail along the brown suede. “He knows I was young. He knows I quit college when I got pregnant with him. He knows you are a Hawaiian, that you’re a giant, but I was never comfortable talking about the past.” She looks away from him and Kona wishes he knew why. He wishes those cluster of thoughts he can see working in her eyes would surface. “Not any of it, and he hasn’t pushed much. He’s never asked for your name.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”