5. Lila #3
“Were you close with your dad? You know, before all this?”
“Fuck no,” he spat. “Sorry.” He ducked his head and pulled in a long breath. “I’ve kept my distance from my dad for a long time. Even before all the crime, he was a piece of shit. If anything, the recent stuff has just confirmed what I’ve always known.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He cleared his throat and focused on something across the parking lot.
“Some of my brothers are devastated. Gus was close to Dad. And the news hit Jude hard too. Probably because he’s the nicest out of all of us.
But I detached from my father and his particular brand of bullshit a long time ago. ”
A silence settled over the car then. I was at a loss for what to say. My heart ached for him and his brothers. My own dad was hardly father of the year, but he loved me and wasn’t a criminal.
I studied Owen’s profile—his strong nose, square stubble-covered jaw, and his plump lower lip.
My stomach dipped every time I let myself really think about him.
And every time I had the chance to assess him like this.
He was an honest, hardworking, genuine man.
Nothing like his father. And I’d help him with whatever he needed.
I handed him the bag of baby carrots again, and his hand brushed mine as he accepted it. That simple touch made my breath catch and my pulse quicken.
And suddenly, Priscilla felt a lot less spacious.
He cleared his throat. “But enough about my shit. Are you sure you have time for this? It’s okay if you don’t. I don’t want you to feel obligated to help.”
Humming, I twisted my lips, searching for the best way to respond to him. I did feel obligated. But I was also interested in the work, and, although I’d never admit it, in getting to know him.
With his head lowered again, he scratched at his jawline. “You just seem busy.”
A long sigh escaped me. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth.
It was way too pathetic. I’d wasted most of my twenties chasing the wrong things and now I had to exhaust myself every day to keep from spiraling.
About the mess I’d made out of my adult life.
About all the stupid mistakes I’d made and all the ways I’d put others before myself.
“I’m sorry I was snappy earlier.” I was still feeling guilty. “I’m really passionate about food insecurity and helping out.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m an idiot and appreciate the opportunity to learn more.”
“It’s just…” This was hard to say, especially to someone like him.
“When I was little, my mom and I used to sometimes have to go to the food pantry. Vic’s aunt, Miss Lou, always made sure we had enough.
” My voice shook a bit. This wasn’t something I talked about.
Not that I was ashamed. My mom was a child when she had me and did her absolute best to build a comfortable life for both of us.
His face froze. God, I could see the pity in his eyes.
“I’m sorry…”
I held up a hand to stop him. “Please don’t.
” I didn’t want his pity. I wanted him to see me as a capable adult.
“But that’s why I try to make as much time as I can to pitch in.
Small towns run on the energy of their citizens,” I said.
“I may only be here temporarily, but I gotta help out where I can.”
He watched me, gaze intense, for several seconds. I could only stare back while some kind of unspoken understanding passed between us.
“So let me help you,” I said softly.
Without a word, he dropped his focus from my face, unbuckled his seat belt, and opened the passenger door.
Then he just stood there, his broad frame blocking out the cold, not looking at me, not speaking, for so long I began to fidget. Finally, he clutched the doorframe and leaned in, studying me.
“You’re quite the surprise, Lila.”
I turned to him, immediately caught up in the way he watched me, wondering if he could read minds, because I thought the same way about him.
Then, as I admired the stubble along his square jaw, I hoped that he couldn’t.
Thoughts of Owen consumed me so wholly that I couldn’t find a way to articulate what I wanted.
Which was to work with him. Spend time with him. Help him in any way I could.
This was why I needed to go to grad school.
So I could get a good job with decent health insurance.
Because I clearly needed a fuck ton of therapy.
So I could one day be a functional adult woman who could express herself with words instead of staring slack-jawed at the corporate guy with the distractingly broad shoulders.
“Have a good weekend, okay?” he said. “Don’t work yourself to the bone.”
“I should tell you the same thing.”
He shook his head and gave me the smallest of smiles. “Noted.”
He closed the door and tapped the roof of the van. Then he took a step back and stuffed his hands into his pockets, watching me as I drove away.
Why was my stomach clenching? Why was I feeling this strange pull toward Owen and his messy family business?
And what the hell was I getting myself into?