Barbara must be rubbing off on Kane. Instead of texting me, I get a message on the hotel line that says he’d like me to meet him up in his room for our weekly meeting at six thirty.
We’re in Chicago, and although I didn’t want to come—I’ve been dodging Kane for an entire week since I got drunk and made a fool of myself, handing him the opportunity to reject me—I have to attend this meeting.
Since I have no choice but to be there, I decide to dress not to impress. I stay in my workout clothes after I visited the gym downstairs, still reeking of sweat, but I throw a sweatshirt on over top. Instead of putting my gym shoes back on, I glide my feet into the pair of slides I usually wear around the hotel room. This way there’s no possibility of Kane thinking my advancements were anything other than I drank too many damn seltzers. Of course, the shots didn’t help either.
Leaving my room, I take the elevator to his floor and knock on the door.
He opens it, and the monster of an ache that’s been living and breathing inside me since I called off our casual hookups roars to life. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, a threadbare hockey T-shirt that he’s probably owned forever, and he’s barefoot. His eyes soak me up as much as mine do him. The tension we both ignore zaps to life like a power switch being turned to the on position.
“Come in.” He steps aside and motions for me to enter his room.
He has a suite similar to mine. Bedroom and bathroom closed off, and a living space with a desk and television to entertain.
“I made the choices for dinner. I hope they’re okay.”
He walks over to the room service cart and lifts two silver domes to reveal a steak with a baked potato dish, and a chicken with rice and pasta dish. “If you’d rather have one to yourself, I’ll take whichever you don’t want. Or I figured we could share family style.”
I sit down. “We can share. I’d never eat one of those meals by myself.”
“You should try it sometime.” Kane cuts the steak and potato in half.
“I don’t have an eating disorder, if that’s what you’re suggesting?” I grab a fork and knife and cut the chicken.
“Not at all. I’m just saying I’d like to see you enjoy life a little.”
I stop cutting and stare at him. “You think I don’t enjoy my life?”
He never looks up from cutting the steak. I want to call him a chickenshit, but I refrain since we’re trying to keep this working relationship intact.
“I think you have a lot of pressure on you. I think you find it hard to let loose. That’s why it was so nice to watch you from the sidelines the other night.”
Except he wasn’t on the sidelines. His dick was in my hand, and he denied me.
“I was drunk. And just so you’re aware, you aren’t exactly a ball of sunshine yourself.”
He gives me a wicked smile. “I know. I have a chip on my shoulder. I’m pissed off at a lot of things in this world when I should be thankful for the position I’m in. Do you know why you’re not as happy as you could be?”
We end up splitting the plates and keep the pasta between us.
“I don’t know.” I reach for my water and take a sip.
“Bullshit.”
I cut off a bite of steak and shove it in my mouth because it will take me longer to chew and give me an opportunity to think about how I want to answer his question. “Are you really asking me to throw years of therapy in your lap? I don’t need fixing, Kane. I’m not looking for a relationship, especially marriage.” I’m sure that’s his angle.
He chuckles. “Who said I was?”
“Look at you. You’re meant to be the patriarch of a family. The caregiver, protector, wearing a Father of the Year T-shirt. You take care of everyone, make everyone around you relaxed enough to be themselves because they know you can hold the weight of their problems.”
He shakes his head and forks a piece of the vodka pasta. “Would it surprise you if I told you I don’t want kids? Marriage, yes—if the right person comes along—but I don’t want a family.”
He’s got to be kidding me. “Your brother—”
“Doesn’t know shit. He wants me to have a family because he thinks that’ll make up for our childhood. A do-over.”
I don’t want to pry, but I have a million questions I want to ask him. But if I ask him, I have to be okay with him asking me things. But maybe it’s best we clear the air. Get all the reasons we shouldn’t get involved out in the open. Talk about all the baggage we’re both carrying through life. Perhaps that will make it easier to resist the man sitting across from me.
“What was your childhood like?” I ask, low and unassuming in case he shuts me down.
He looks up from his plate. “Are we really going to do this?”
Our eyes meet and I nod once. “I think so.”
For a moment he says nothing, just holds my gaze. “My dad died in a work accident when I was really young, and my mom never picked up the pieces.” He cuts into his chicken. “She fell into a depression, and though my aunt got her medicated, she rarely leaves the house. My aunt takes care of her now that Lee and I are gone, but growing up, it was me. I was the oldest, so…”
“You took over raising Lee, and that’s why you don’t want kids.”
He shakes his head. “No. Raising Lee was hard when I was just a kid myself, but I don’t want to bring a child into this world, into a family that’s so unpredictable. My aunt always tells me my parents wouldn’t have wanted this life for me. They would’ve wanted me to enjoy my childhood and not have to worry about making dinner, making sure the bills were paid and that my brother and I had clothes that fit us. I just decided at a really young age that I wouldn’t have kids on the off chance they could end up in a similar situation.”
Silence coats the room like a fresh coat of paint.
My heart aches when I picture a young Kane with so much resting on his shoulders. But I know Kane doesn’t want my pity, so I clear my throat. “That sucks, and I completely understand. It’s funny how your youth can dictate your future, right?”
He nods. “Are you about to tell me why you’re so uptight?”
I throw a piece of my roll at him. “I’m not uptight, but you’re right that I rarely let loose.” I shrug. “I told you about how my dad wanted a boy.”
“I doubt that.”
Dipping my head, I look at him from under my brows. “I didn’t interrupt you.”
He chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Carry on.”
I lay my fork down beside my plate. “My dad taught me to hide my emotions from a young age. I remember when I was seven or eight, we were in a department store, and I wanted something. My mom said no for some reason. She rarely ever said no, and I threw a fit in the dressing room. My dad heard it, and when we got in the car afterward, he lectured me about how people were always watching us, judging us. Did I want to be the brat they assumed I was? And he was right. People were always paying attention to what I said and did because they knew who my dad was. The following Monday, a boy at school brought it up, and when I asked how he knew, he said it had traveled from some other person who saw it to his dad when he was at a party that weekend. I realized eyes were everywhere, and I didn’t want my dad to have the bad press.”