Chapter 10 #2
“All your questions will be answered—” he tips his head toward the brewery’s front door “—inside over grilled cheese and a basket of fries with two sides of ketchup.” He winks.
Clusters of customers occupy the various high and low top tables throughout the brewery.
It’s busier than I thought it would be on a Sunday night, but several teams linger after the restaurant’s Trivia Night Showdown.
With a hand nestled against my lower back, Davis escorts me toward two empty stools at the bar.
I try to ignore the way my body sinks into the warmth of his palm. Try, but fail miserably.
Up until thirty minutes ago, he was Davis the ass.
Now he’s Davis something else entirely. Not quite Kenny, Doc and Estelle’s thoughtful grandson, but something in-between the sexy blind date that sparked an interest in me before he quelled it with his unintentional jerkery and the too-good-to-be-true grandson.
“Why Kenny?” I ask, picking up the iced tea I’d ordered.
“It’s short for Mac ken zie.” He emphasizes the ken in Mackenzie.
“Mac is the typical nickname for Mackenzie, and Pop said that I was too special to go with something so mundane. Plus, he had a best friend in school named Kenny whom he said I reminded him of. I was pretty proud to wear the nickname, even now. As you know, Peach , getting a nickname from Pop is the gold star of approval.” He bumps my shoulder with his.
“Why would you need approval from your grandfather?”
“Because at the time he gave me the nickname, I wasn’t his grandson… At least not yet.” He taps his fingers against his glass of iced tea.
“What does that mean?” I spin on the stool, my knees pressing into his right thigh.
“Deanna and Mimi didn’t become my foster parents until I was ten.”
“You were in foster care?”
“Yeah.” He turns, his large legs bracketing mine, our gazes tethering.
The action linked us together. Despite the murmured conversations and quiet hum of music, the intimacy of this moment isolates us.
“I was in-and-out of different homes since I was seven,” he says in a matter-of-fact way, but something sad darkens his expression.
I reach out, placing my hand on his. “You don’t have to tell me about it if?—”
“I want to.” He squeezes my hand. “Both my parents struggled with drugs. Dad still does—” his forehead wrinkles “—at least I think he does. I went no-contact with him ten years ago. I just couldn’t continue to leave myself open to him and his false promises.”
An ache twinges in my throat. Nolan Lane isn’t fatherly, but I can’t imagine him being out of my life. He’ll never be the type of dad I imagine Rem wants to be, or that I know Doc is from the stories Estelle shares, but he’s there in different ways. I also have my mom, always have.
“What about your mom?” I skate my thumb against his hand, and the gray clouds in his eyes dissolve with each tender stroke.
“She died of an overdose when I was seven. Hence, foster care.” He heaves a long breath.
“Dad couldn’t deal and fell into his habit hard.
He got arrested buying meth and the officers found me in the car waiting for him outside his dealer’s apartment.
A string of arrests and rehab stints left me bouncing between my dad and foster homes. ”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you all that. I’m talking too much about my sad history…” His stare drops to his lap, where my fingers are threaded with his.
“I asked.” I drag his attention back to me with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay… But I do want to know.”
“You like my sad story?” The corners of his mouth flex into an earnest grin that spreads gooey warmth inside me.
“It helps that I know it has a happy ending.”
A chuckle rumbles in his throat. “I’m starting to understand your fondness for the romance genre.
” He nods, his smile getting a little bigger.
“It did end happily. Deanna and Mimi became my foster moms when I was ten, and even though my dad never lost or relinquished his parental rights, they are my moms, and Pop and Nan are my grandparents. At eighteen, I aged out of foster care, but they never let go of me.”
“They’re your family in all the ways that matter.”
Despite the love that envelopes Davis, I know he’s haunted by the relationship with his dad.
The comment about people failing you that he’d made during our first date in this very brewery whispers inside me.
My heart may be melting for this man, but the warning bells that sounded that night about skeptical men still caution me to stay away.
He clears his throat. “I bought a romance novel.”
The abrupt topic change causes my eyebrows to shoot up. “You didn’t?” I guffaw.
“I did.” His thumb massages the top of my hand. “Three to be exact.”
“You didn’t?” Gaping, I repeat my question, knowing exactly which three he’d bought.
“You were so passionate in your defense of the genre that I thought if I was going to start my education, it should start with yours.”
“And?”
“I’m halfway through Twice Baked Love but?—”
“No!” I laughingly whine. “Of all the ones to start with, that is not the one. It’s my worst! You should have started with The Duke’s Darling . It’s probably my best.”
“I’m enjoying Owen and Selena’s story.”
I rub the center of my forehead with my free hand. “But it’s like a saccharine-sweet Hallmark movie.”
“I don’t recall icing play in any of the Hallmark movies my Nan watches at the holidays,” he teases, bumping his knee against mine.
“It is a little cheesy, but it’s also heartfelt and layered.
How Owen thinks of everyone but himself, and how that even gets in the way of his relationship with Selena. You’re really talented.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Take the compliment, Peach.” His mouth quirks.
An unexpected clench tightens my core at the way Peach sounds on his lips. It’s playful but loaded with seductive intent. As if he plans to bite into me, then lick up every drop.
Good lord, Georgia. I squeeze my legs together. My legs that are still caged by his.
“Why happy endings?” He juts his chin toward me.
“Besides the obvious ooey-gooey feeling?”
He smirks.
“As a kid, I was sick a lot. Stomach issues. Migraines. It was all related to my celiacs but we didn’t know it until I was twelve.
My parents also fought a lot until they got divorced when I was eleven.
My dad fancies himself the next Andy Warhol.
It caused a lot of tension between my parents.
He was always leaving to do art shows or teach at a different art institute. ”
“Jackson? Georgia? Don’t you have an older brother called Rembrandt? You’re all named after artists?” he says, his nose crinkled.
“Yep.” I shrug. “Nolan Lane lives and breathes art. Hence the divorce. My mother never stood a chance against his one true love. After the divorce, he left to chase his dream.”
“And I thought I got fixated.” His laugh-filled expression sobers. “What about you and your brothers? It’s hard to have your dad choose something else over you.”
Wouldn’t he know this better than anyone? An ache radiates in my chest at Davis losing both his parents to substance abuse. I have empathy for whatever demons his parents face, but it doesn’t erase the impact on their son.
I haven’t experienced the same pain as this man, but I won’t pretend that there isn’t a little hurt related to my dad.
As a kid, a blend of grief and sadness over the loss of my dad often knotted inside me.
But that was more about the loss of the dream of what a father should be versus who Nolan Lane was.
Once I let go of that and just accepted my dad and the relationship as is, that sadness got easier to deal with.
“He loves us, and, in his own way, he’s been there for me.
I’m probably the closest to him out of the three of us.
Hope, my bestie and Rem’s wife, sends holiday and birthday cards, but Dad and my older brother don’t have a relationship.
Jackson texts Dad, and they talk a couple of times a year.
Dad and I talk a few times a month. Mostly about what books I’m reading, his art, and my writing.
He might be the most supportive about my writing. ”
“The rest of your family isn’t supportive?”
“My mom and Jackson are ish ”—I make air quotes with my fingers—“but they worry that I’m making too much of a financial investment. Hope is one hundred percent Team Georgia, thanks to the beauty of a two-decade-plus long friendship. Rem…not-so-much. He thinks I’m wasting my time and money.”
Something unspools inside me with the laying of all my truths on the table. Hope hears some of this, but I try to pick and choose how often I complain about my brother, AKA the love of her life. It’s a delicate dance between us at times.
“But you love it.”
Smiling, I nod. “I always have. With my health issues and the turmoil between my parents, I lost myself in stories, especially those with happy endings. When I was home sick, I’d scribble stories in notebooks where dad became a famous artist and it smoothed over the issues between him and my mom, or about me finding a magical flower that cured whatever made me sick all the time. ”
“Focusing on things turning out made it all more bearable for you.”
“Yeah.” Cringing, I close my eyes. “God, I sound like such an indulgent ninny compared to everything you went through.”
“Peach…” His fingers swipe along my jawline, causing my eyes to open and meet his stare. His other hand remains wrapped tightly around mine.
Every bit of his large frame holds me in an intimate little bubble. The heat of his body. The caress of his gaze locked with mine. The sensation of his touch on my skin.
“Suffering is suffering. You were sick and, at the time, you didn’t know why. That’s scary enough, but then adding your parents’ instability, it’s a lot. It’s not indulgent to want everything to turn out.”
“Thank you,” I say, my breath catching.
“You’re welcome.” His hand caresses my cheek before dropping to his lap. “Can we talk about your use of the word ninny?”
Head tipped back, a loud chortle belts out of me. “I didn’t.”
“That you did.”
I point at him. “Before we discuss my use of the word ninny, which you’ll find is an excellent word after you read The Duke’s Darling , you still need to explain how you turned out to be the app designer for GF Finder. I thought you were a business guy like Jackson.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “What do you think No Boundaries is?”
“Isn’t it some sort of hedge fund or something equally finance bro-ey,” I tease.
“Finance bro-ey?” His forehead scrunches. “Now who’s judgy?”
Turns out I am. Much of Jackson’s early career out of business school was with tech companies that all had a financial slant. Cash apps or banking software companies, so I assumed No Boundaries is just like the rest.
“You design apps for the disabled and chronically ill?” I’m sure my expression teeters between impressed and bewildered.
Turns out Davis isn’t a finance bro, but a tech genius.
At twenty-four, he designed a verification app heavily used in banking.
Using the earnings from that, and a few others he designed that are widely used within the financial world, he created GF Finder and then a social media-like app to help individuals with autism connect with resources and socializing opportunities.
“No Boundaries creates apps that help the disabled and chronically ill live full lives. Between the money I’ve invested and several other investors, we’re able to focus on that mission,” he explains.
“I had no idea.”
He tilts his head. “Jackson didn’t tell you?”
“Nope. Frankly, I’m shocked he didn’t use it to crown himself King Do-Gooder. He’s not known for his discretion.”
“That he isn’t.” His chuckle is warm. “For months, he’s been going on and on about the sister I need to meet. What are the odds she turns out to be the famous Peach my grandparents have gone on and on about for the last few years?”
“What are the odds?” I hum, my fingers gliding over his hand, which remained joined with mine.
It should be awkward to just sit here holding this man’s hand.
What is this? A second chance for a first date?
Just a grandson doing what his grandma asked?
Whatever was happening here, emotions stretch inside me like an intense game of tug-of-war.
The rope pulls me between melting into whatever is happening with Davis and the three men currently corralled by my brother. The men I’m supposed to date.
You’re a mess, Georgia. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping the pain yanks me out of the spell I’m under with Davis.
“Two grilled cheeses, an order of steak fries, and two sides of ketchup,” the bartender announces as he places our food on the bar in front of us.
“Thanks,” Davis addresses the bartender, but his stare remains tethered with mine.
“We should eat.” Releasing his hand, I spin the chair and pick up my sandwich.
He follows the action. “Here’s to stories with happy endings,” he says, lifting up his grilled cheese in an almost toasting fashion.
“To stories with happy endings.” I mirror his action, fighting against the quiet voice inside me that reminds me that there are three men whose happy endings I stole. Whatever this is with Davis, it’s not fair to Owen, Lord James, and Lars. Something I need to remember.