CHAPTER 29
Asher
G rowing up, I had no idea what I’d be exposed to at any given time.
Like the Christmas morning my father came home from a brawl, coked up, and passed out on the living room floor, but not before taking the whole tree down with him.
Or the time I was playing hide-and-seek with my cousins at my uncle’s deli only to realize someone was tied up in the back room, beaten so badly that their face was unrecognizable.
Or the time I found a severed finger under the workbench in our garage when I went out there to work on my brand-new bike at the ripe age of twelve.
Looking back, I’m pretty sure I learned to harden from as soon as I could register those memories. I always had to be on high alert, to remain in fight or flight. And when I wasn’t, everything felt off. I started to need the chaos to feel normal.
Which is why I’m feeling on guard tonight as I get ready to take Olivia to dinner with her parents. It could also be partly because the other night I spontaneously decided to tell her more about my past than I had ever intended to.
I just couldn’t stop myself when I could see her thinking I didn’t want to kiss her, didn’t want to touch her, when the truth is I’ve thought of nothing else.
But I needed her to know I was only denying anything between us because I would never want to hurt her.
My darkness haunts me and I won’t let it haunt her too.
Even though I was able to open up to her, I couldn’t tell her everything.
The full truth was on the tip of my tongue, but when I saw the horror in Liv’s eyes when I told her about prison, I froze and decided to tell her only what I thought she could handle.
And I’m not sure she could handle me being the heir to the largest organized crime ring between Boston and New York. Not yet at least.
Though I’ll admit, even telling her the little I did feels like a weight off of my chest.
I turn up “1800 Miles” by Colter Wall on my Bluetooth speaker as I change my shirt for the third damn time, and I spend a little time making sure my hair sits just right.
I don’t remember the last time I gave a fuck about my appearance, but I want this to go well.
Olivia cares a lot about what her parents think, so that makes me care what her parents think.
Shutting my speaker off and making my way down the steps of my house, I head to the workshop carrying two containers of food.
I feed Duke a whole food diet, no store-bought bullshit, and tonight it’s ground beef, green beans, and sweet potato.
He’s already waiting as I open the door, his tail wagging nonstop when he sees me.
Dick peers out from behind my workbench. He usually avoids me, but when I have food it’s a different story. And while I don’t like cats, I’m not gonna see him starve. Plus, I guess he gives Duke a friend.
Pulling out the second container, I add a scoop of raw pumpkin to a smaller dish and set it down.
“Don’t get used to it, fucker.” I grimace, sliding the dish over to Dick. He gets his back up at the sound of my voice be fore hissing at me. “Baby steps then, I guess, ya horse’s arse?”
We still aren’t friends, and Dick knows it, but he sniffs around the pumpkin and starts to eat it anyway.
I turn to make my way out of the barn, heading for my truck, as I think about Olivia, imagining the happy smile she’d offer if she knew I fed the damn cat.
I may tell her, just to give her something else to focus on other than her parents, me, and the baby.
I’m learning quickly that, when she can’t plan something or control something, she panic talks.
Nonstop. About anything and everything. The fear of telling her more details about my old life hits me even harder when I realize everything about my family, my past is chaos.
I push that thought away as I drive. In my mind, I’m already halfway through all the things I can say to her to help her relax. I tell myself that’s the normal, supportive thing to do, and I’ve almost got myself convinced my thoughts are strictly chivalrous. That is, until I pull up to her cabin.
Olivia’s already waiting, standing on her porch in a short, off-the-shoulder pink dress.
It’s pretty from the front, of course, but when she turns to make sure the door is pulled tightly closed and I see the low back tied at the top in a big exaggerated bow, it hits me that she looks like a wrapped present.
One I’m almost desperate to claim for myself.
Her hair blows in the summer breeze as she holds a platter of freshly baked cupcakes.
Goddamn, no matter how many times I tell myself she deserves the kind of man she says she wants, or that I shouldn’t try to keep her, I already know I’m quickly becoming fucking obsessed with the mother of my child.