Chapter 21 #2
“Maybe, maybe not. Like I said, I don’t know your circumstances and unlike you, I don’t have a habit of prying into other people’s business.” He shows me a flicker of a crooked smirk that breaks the tension, causing me to snort out a short laugh.
“There she is,” he breathes, his eyes lighting up like the fourth of July. My stomach squiggles, but I push it away and blame it on the alcohol.
My next thought sobers my short-lived giddiness. “I don’t actually know, either. I was in care since I was a baby.” He goes very still beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him, instead pinning my eyes to the sunken fire pit that simmers a few feet away.
“Did you ever try and look for your parents?”
I nod, using my toes to rub stray sand off the top of my foot. “Yep. Couldn’t find anything.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
I shake my hair forward to cover my face that suddenly feels hot. “It is what it is. I came to terms with it a long time ago.”
A hand gently sweeps my hair away, back over my shoulder, sending a cascade of tingles down my spine.
His hand rests there, burning an imprint into my shoulder.
“Pepper, look at me.” I clear my throat and force my prickling eyes up to his.
He dips his head so that our eyes are level.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he repeats so earnestly it cranks the waterworks up a notch.
He has this way of cutting through all of the noise and seeing right through the facade I wear, and it makes me want to throw off my own skin and run. What I want to say is that being surrendered in a box is the least of my trauma, but I don’t.
“Gah, I’m sorry.” I look abruptly away and swipe a tear from my face, mortification swallowing me whole. Crying on the beach with Chase Walker? A new low.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I take another swig of my beer, rapidly blinking back the moisture.
“Pretend you don’t have feelings. Everyone cries sometimes.”
I let out a brief laugh despite myself, sniffing and turning my head to face him. He grins lopsidedly, a feature I once found irritating now endearing. God dammit, he really is beautiful and there is no getting around that.
“You cry?” I ask skeptically.
“Oh, all the time!” He scoffs, removing his hand, humor etched into every hard line as he takes another sip of beer.
“When I run out of my favorite ice cream…when my team loses at baseball…when the cute chick with pink hair turns me down.” He shoots me a slick wink at that last one.
“I’m a regular old cry-baby and not ashamed to admit it. ”
I know he’s joking, but his ability to poke fun at his own expense to lighten my spirit is almost heartbreaking when I feel this emotionally exposed. Especially a joke that broaches the topic of our impromptu make-out session. Shit, I need to steer away from this vulnerable space immediately.
“Your mom is very kind.”
His easy demeanor stumbles slightly, and I feel a touch guilty to have steered away from my own weak spot and directly into his. “Yeah, she’s…almost her usual self tonight.” He reaches up to scratch the back of his head, something I’ve noticed he does when he feels uncomfortable.
“Do you mind me asking what happened to her?” I tiptoe carefully into his personal business, not wanting to pry too much after he was just so gracious with my own admission.
He’s silent for a moment, and then another, leaving me thinking he won’t answer.
“It’s okay if you tell me to butt out,” I add quietly.
“No, I don’t mind. I’m just trying to think of a way to summarize it that isn’t dark as shit.” He takes another sip and contemplates, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon, and I can tell he’s a million miles away in his head. “She loved a man who was very cruel, and it left a mark on all of us.”
I digest that for a moment, trying to pair it up with what I know about his father.
He was big in real estate, married into the Walker family, and took his wife’s name—an unusual move of that era, which is rather telling about his motives.
Walker is, after all, the most powerful name in the city.
There is a sealed court case, and a record of him being sent to prison, where he ultimately died of a heart attack, but everything else remains elusive.
Clearly there is much more to the story, but I decide to leave my prying there.
“Well, I hope you all heal in time,” I say sincerely, offering my beer neck out to him. He smiles a little sadly and clinks it with his.
“Pepper! There is chocolate pizza in here, you have to try some!” Sunny appears at the large sliding doors, her cheeks brimming with pink happiness.
I grin at her and nod. “I’ll be right in, babe.”
She whizzes away and I rise to my feet, dusting grains of scratchy sand off the back of my legs. Chase stands too, the lightly crocheted material of the cream short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing straining over his broad muscled chest.
“See, isn’t it so much nicer when you don’t hate me?”
I roll my eyes and turn away from him, heading for the open doors. “Who said I don’t hate you still?”
We walk into the warmly lit open-plan living space, a glamorous wash of neutral palettes and coastal blue. The rest of the group gather around the statement marble island, chatting and laughing. Bar Mr. Clay, who retired to bed an hour ago.
“Right, someone has pooped!” Chloe announces, staring around at the children of various sizes who sit in highchairs. “Is it yours, or mine?” she asks Mason, who lifts one brow silently.
“Sorry, it was Pepper. Can’t take her anywhere,” Chase drawls, coasting past me toward everyone.
I still manage to clip the back of his arm before he’s out of reach, and then I spot little Diego laughing into his hand. “I say it was Diego,” I announce, and grin when the little boy squeaks and drops his hand.
“Oh, Diego,” his mom plays along. “What have I told you about this?” The little dark-haired boy grins when she winks at him.
The more I look at them, the more sure I am that Diego is not biologically hers.
His skin is too dark compared to Chloe’s pale alabaster.
Their daughter, Sofia, who babbles away in her highchair, is much fairer in comparison.
But all the same, they clearly love each other just as much, and I know better than anyone that the best family can be chosen.
“Nope, it’s ours. Woof!” Mia holds up one of her boys at arm’s length, her nose wrinkled. “Good thing it’s Daddy’s turn.” She holds her son out to her husband and grins when he rolls his eyes.
In contrast, Mason Walker doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the smell coming from his offspring as he takes him in hand and carries him silently from the room.