Deep Pockets (Kings and Rivals #1)

Chapter 24 – Morgan

24

I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS

MORGAN

I wasn't sure what to expect from Lance's idea of a date. Maybe some ritzy restaurant where we'd pretend to be normal people for a night. Instead, he'd planned a food tour around the city, followed by dancing at a Cuban-Jamaican spot, and an all-night dessert place. After that run-in with my father, it felt like exactly what I needed, even as his accusations lingered in the back of my mind.

I glanced at Lance as we walked. He seemed oddly at ease, shoulders relaxed, mouth curled in a slight smile. It softened his whole face, made him look almost... happy. The expression did something strange to my insides.

"You know," I said, breaking our comfortable silence, "this is a pretty elaborate setup just to get me to spend time with you outside the bedroom."

Lance laughed, deep and rich. "If I wanted to keep you in bed, I'd have just locked the door. But tonight isn't about that. It's about this." He swung our joined hands, and I realized I'd been holding his the entire time. Tonight, I wanted to see where this would go.

Our first stop was a tiny hole-in-the-wall dumpling place in Chinatown. Lance ordered in fluent Mandarin with a surprising grin. We squeezed between plastic tables, and within minutes, plates of piping hot dumplings surrounded us, the smell of ginger and garlic filling the air.

"Show off.” I said, picking up a dumpling.

"Need to practice. I know just enough to get by. I don’t want to lose it. I spent a year in China when my father had a contract there," he said casually, pride flickering in his eyes. He never talked about his parents.

"Color me impressed," I teased, taking a bite. The dumpling was perfect—crispy outside, juicy inside. "Okay, maybe you do know a thing or two about good food."

"I told you, I'm full of surprises."

"Like being a polyglot? What other languages do you speak?"

He shrugged. "Dad had French ancestry, so I speak French. Some Italian and German, too."

"So you're just casually an international man of mystery? What about your mom?"

His eyes went wistful. "She learned French for Dad. Sometimes I think she spoke it better than he did."

"Nothing says love like learning someone's language. Where are your parents?"

He nodded slowly, his gaze on mine. "Dad died when I was twelve, car accident. Mom, she died when I was eighteen."

My heart sank. "I'm so sorry, Lance. That's devastating. I shouldn't have brought it up."

Gently he took my hands. "It's okay. I know we're doing this ass-backward. And you remind me a lot of my mother. She was fierce, loyal, had a quick tongue and loved big."

My entire body flushed with pleasure. "I would have loved to meet her."

His smile softened. "She would have loved you dearly and pestered me about pulling my head out of my ass."

“So you think she would approve of me?” I asked softly.

His eyes went soft. “God, yes. She would have loved the way that you laugh. With your whole body. She would have loved that you give me shit at every turn. She always worried I’d be too cocky.”

“You? Never?”

With an eye roll, he added, “The point is she would have loved another daughter. And you are a lot like her. Creative spirit, big heart.”

“Careful now. You’re going to make me think you see me.”

He leveled a gaze on me then. “I see you, Morgan. I’ve always seen you. I just didn’t know what I was seeing until recently.”

My heart squeezed. God, I was such a goner.

We shared stories, laughter bubbling up naturally. No games, no pretense. Just us. Our second stop was my pick, a bustling taco truck near the Lower East Side. The spicy meat mixed with lime juice was perfect, and Lance's eyes widened with approval.

"These are fantastic," he admitted, licking sauce off his thumb.

"See? I'm teaching you things. You're a lucky man."

His smile softened, almost tender. "Yeah, I am."

My chest tightened, and I looked away quickly. My father's words about Lance echoed in my mind. I knew they weren't true—the Lance I knew wasn't capable of what my father described. But there was something in the way he carried himself, in the careful way he chose his words sometimes, that suggested depths I hadn't begun to fathom.

Lance picked up on my shift immediately. "What's with the look?"

"What look?" I flashed my brightest smile.

"That one." He tipped my chin up. "We talk now, remember?"

Damn it . Why couldn't we do the whole open communication thing when convenient? "I saw Dad the other day. He was a bit of a prick. But that's not news."

The muscle in his jaw ticked, his voice pure ice. "What did he say, Morgan?"

"It's not important." I didn’t want Lance to see me upset. I wanted to be strong.

He lifted a brow, giving me his stop-playing-and-talk-to-me face. So I told him about the whoring comment and settling for Gwen's castoff. His expression went beyond pissed, but I could see him mentally applying control with each word.

"He's your father, so I won't kill him. But I will make him pay."

The warning bells chimed again. I didn't believe my father's accusations—not for a second. But Lance had layers I hadn't uncovered, secrets he held close. "Dad said that you tried to kill him.”

Lance blinked slowly, his voice going flat. "He said what?" His brows furrowed and he tightened his mouth. “Morgan, if I wanted your father dead, he’d be dead. He’s certainly given enough cause.” I shook my head. “So, what did happen?” He opened his mouth to answer and I cut him off. “Actually, you know what? Never mind. Firstly, he’s not a reliable narrator. This is what he wants. For me to distrust you. Of course you didn’t try and kill him. I do want to know things about you. Anything you’re willing to tell me, but I won’t let him pick at my insecurity, not with you. And I’m not going to let him manipulate me. This is what he does. I’m happy with you and I intend to stay that way."

His brows furrowed. "Morgan?—"

"He's just pissed that I didn't run back to him and do as I was told. He can't hurt me." Even as I said it, I knew I was deflecting. Lance was keeping something from me—maybe not what my father claimed, but something significant.

His gaze searched mine. “I won’t say I didn’t rough him up. But I did not attempt to kill him.”

I stared at him. “Of course you didn’t. My father is a lying narcissist who can’t stand the fact that I’ve survived without him. I shouldn't have brought it up. He’s stolen enough time from me. I want to enjoy my date. Now if you don't mind, you promised me dessert."

Lance searched my gaze before nodding. "Have it your way." He gave me that easy smile that barely hinted at the depths beneath.

"What's next?"

"We keep eating. You ready?"

"Always."

We moved through the city—the best New York-style hot dogs, a pizza-by-the-slice joint Lance swore by, and finally, a family-run Korean BBQ spot where we grilled our own meat. By the end, I was stuffed, tipsy from soju, and grinning.

The Cuban-Jamaican place pulsed with bass, dimly lit with flickering candles while a live band played salsa. The music wrapped around us as Lance found a table near the back. We sipped mojitos, the minty coolness contrasting with lingering spice on my lips.

"What?" I asked, catching his intense gaze.

"Nothing," he said softly. "Just thinking how good you look tonight."

My heart stuttered. "You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I might actually believe you."

He leaned forward, brushing my hand. "You should believe me."

The music shifted, and he stood, offering his hand. "Dance with me."

"Are you sure you can keep up?"

That cocky grin appeared. "Try me."

He tugged me to my feet. Then his hand found the small of my back, guiding me with confidence and care. Our bodies fit perfectly, moving as one. The electricity between us was undeniable, and when he spun me back against him, my pulse raced.

"You're good," I whispered, breathless.

"Told you I'd surprise you."

Lance had pulled out all the stops. We’d danced for another hour, then headed out to our next spot. At the twenty-four-hour dessert spot in Williamsburg, we shared tres leches cake and spiked hot chocolate. Despite my lingering questions about his past, about the secrets he kept, I couldn't deny how right this felt.

"I've got to hand it to you, Lakewood," I said, hovering over the last bite. "You might just be the perfect date."

He leaned back, thoughtful. "I don't want to be just the perfect date, Morgan. I want to be more."

My breath caught. "Lance..."

"I know things are complicated. I know we've got a lot to figure out. But I don't want to spend another second pretending like this doesn't mean something."

My heart attempted to soar out of my chest, but I buckled it down. “I don't want to lose myself. I want someone who wants all of me. The real me. Not a cardboard-cutout version of my sister."

He blinked rapidly in confusion, then his hand covered mine. “You’re who I’m crazy about. Not some version of you that fits. We’re messy Morgan. But we’re real. I want you, Morgan. All of you. You challenge me like I need. You always have."

Fear mingled with hope in my chest. Maybe we could have this. Maybe it was worth the risk, even with his secrets still between us.

There was a part of me that knew him so well. Knew that he was loyal, dependable, protective. Kind. He’d shown me that day in and day out since I was twelve.

But he’s keeping something hidden.

And after living my whole life with my father, I couldn’t help but wonder when that other shoe would drop.

Or maybe you know what really matters and the rest will come with time.

I squeezed his hand. "Okay. Let's see where this goes."

His smile was genuine. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But you'd better keep surprising me."

He grinned, leaning across the table. "Oh, I plan to. Starting now."

As he kissed me in that crowded dessert shop, something shifted—something real and undeniable. It wouldn't be easy. It would be messy and complicated, especially with whatever he wasn't telling me. But for the first time in a long time, I was ready to find out.