Page 32 of Tempting Eden

He went to the fridge. “And now for the pièce de résistance.”

He pulled out a bottle of pinot and uncorked it as I dug into the feast. A couple of red solo cups full of wine were more than I could have hoped for to accompany the luscious chicken potpie, spicy greens, and crunchy fried green tomatoes. We ate in silence for a while, always the hallmark of a good meal.

“Feel better?” he asked and sipped his wine.

“I didn’t feel bad.”

He laughed. “You were verging on biting the brokers’ heads off when they were calling to hand you money.”

I smirked. Adele always said I got “hangry” whenever I needed a snack. I supposed she wasn’t the only one who noticed.

I nodded. “Yes, much better.”

“Good.”

“Thanks, by the way.”

“Eating good food is its own reward.” He smiled, the dimples in full force. He was beautiful, even under the horrendous fluorescents in this room. I cringed at how I must have looked in their soul-sucking glow.

“No, well yes, thanks for the food. But I meant thanks for helping Adele with her book assignment. She hasn’t stopped talking about you since the night you came over. She keeps saying how ‘Jack has the bluest eyes.’” My dreamy imitation of Adele made him smile even wider. My heart made a funny pitter-patter sound at the sight of it.

“She’s a great kid. Glad I could help.”

“She is. And I wanted to mention the other thing, too. I, um, know you sort of walked into the mess with Mason.” I felt my hands moisten. I’d practiced what I would say to Jack, how I would explain, several times. Nothing ever came out right. When things are as wrong as they were between Mason and me, no gloss or even tweak could make the retelling better. “And I’m sorry about that.”

“No worries.” He studied me, smile gone, though no judgment passed across his face.

“It’s just that it’s a family thing. I can’t really explain it.” I could. I wouldn’t, though. “He’s not someone I ever want Adele to know about.”

He kicked back in his chair, the classic male pose of openness, self-possession. “You don’t have to worry. Your secret’s safe with me. And I understand about the family thing. It’s okay.”

“Thanks.” I took an unladylike gulp of wine. “You never really told me about your foster family. What were they like?”

He looked away, no longer giving me the clear blue window into his thoughts. “They weren’t very good people. They…” He shook his head. “Let’s just drop it.”

I rested my elbows on the table. He’d seen my Adele, my heart. Even though I wouldn’t give him everything, would never tell him the whole truth about me, I still wanted his story. I was selfish, wanting more from him than he was ready to give. “Are they the reason you changed? The reason you started controlling your emotions?”

He sighed and folded his napkin next to his plate. “I see you aren’t going to let this go.”

“I think you already gave a pretty accurate rundown of my personality a couple weeks ago in the elevator. So, no, I won’t let it go.”

He crossed his arms in front of him, his biceps framing the expanse of his chest. I wanted to feel the dark hair along his arms. It looked soft.

“I’ll speak about this once, and then I don’t want to speak about it again.”

I nodded. Anything that needed a prologue like that was bound to be good. I wouldn’t ruin it by broaching it again.

He looked up, as if seeking the words he wanted to say somewhere on the squares of the kitchen ceiling.

“I had a sister. At the foster family house. Helen.” He smiled when he said her name, as if it was the only way to say it. Just one thing could make a person do that—love. “She was so chill. All the time. She was like a nine-year-old saint. I say that, but I remember plenty of times when she’d get in trouble with the Reeds, our foster parents, and have to skip meals or worse.”

“Worse?”

He shrugged. “The Reeds took on fosters like me and Helen so they could cash the check from the state each month. They would have at least four kids in their house at any given time. We were a business for them, more than anything else. If we got out of line, they would whip us right back into line. They—”

“Please don’t tell me you mean they literally whipped you.” I tensed at the thought of anyone hurting a child. In my mind, it was always Adele, someone hurting her. I couldn’t handle the thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have goaded him into talking, telling his story. Could I bear it, finding out who he really was, what he’d been through?

He met my eyes. “Yes, literally.”

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