Page 30 of Heavy

I might, but not with a knife.

Jasmine mutters something unintelligible, but I ignore it and dig right in. I’m not even that hungry, just wanting to get this meal over with.

I serve myself a small portion of everything—chicken, mashed potatoes, asparagus—and eat in silence. My step-niece doesn’t ask; she simply pours me a glass of red wine, filling her own afterward.

About ten minutes pass in silence, and I find myself wishing I were a faster eater. I used to be, my first time in prison—you learned to eat quick, or someone else would finish it for you. By the time I went back, though, I was the one eating everyone else’s food.

“Ronan,” Jasmine says after finishing the food in her mouth. “Where are you staying right now?”

I look up at my brother, who is slowly going pale. Obviously he hadn’t expected her to be so blunt, but in my experience with the rich, I’m not surprised. Fucked aMafia Princessduring my small stint outside of prison and saw just how money can influence someone’s personality. It makes them feel superior and untouchable.

As much as I could give two fucks about ruining their relationship with the truth of my residency, I don’t want Cal to leave the cabin just yet.

“Why? You going to come stalk me?”

Her eyes widen, and before she can say anything, it’s Calista that interrupts. “Mom, that’s rude to ask.”

“I’m just wondering.”

“Here in Colorado,” I offer.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Jasmine says, but her eyes are on her daughter, not me. When she finally looks back at me, she continues, “So, what are you doing now?”

I take another bite of food and lean back slightly in my chair. I anticipated being drilled about my life, so it doesn’t catch me off guard. “Stroking my cock” —Calista snorts, and I’m pretty sure I catch a glimpse of food flying from the corner of my eye— “and working on going back to school.” Jasmine’s eyes widen, and I give her a lazy smile. “One of those is true.”

“Okay,” my brother says while grabbing his wine glass and taking a sip. “Calista has a master’s degree in architecture and design. She constructed the interior of this home, and has quite the talent in seeing the broken, then fixing it into something beautiful. This old Victorian was nothing but old wooden planks and ghosts.”

I turn my attention to her, resting my elbow on the table and leaning into my hand. Her eyes are wide and round, her usual siren gaze transformed into something more innocent, like a startled doe. The soft pink hue spreading across her cheeks makes me want nothing more than to see her embarrassed every single second I’m in her presence.

“You like to fix broken things?” My question absolutely has a double meaning, because I see the way she stares at me. While I could argue it’s because she’s attracted to me, there is more to her curious gaze.

She swallows. “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing is truly broken; it just needs special attention to bring it back to what it used to be.”

Shifting my hand into a fist, I rest against my knuckles. “Interesting. Would you say the same about the Tower of Pisa? The Colosseum of Rome?”

Her shocked expression stirs a pang of anger in me. Does she really think I’m stupid? It’s as if she’s surprised I even know what those are.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Imperfect imperfections,” I say. “Not everything needs nor wants to be fixed.”

“And you—”

Cal is cut off by her mother’s abrupt question. “Did you go to college in prison?” I can’t help but wish I were having dinner just with my step-niece. “From what Eamon says, you guys didn’t travel when you were young.”

I struggle to tear my gaze away from Cal, but I know I have to, otherwise I’ll find myself under a different kind of scrutiny. Turning to face my brother and his wife, I force a smile. “No, I graduated high school. Everything else I learned was from my own self desire to be smarter, to keep up with the privileged.”

She offers a smile that deepens the wrinkles around her eyes. “A self-starter—that’s wonderful.” The way she speaks to me feels patronizing. I’m thirty-eight years old, a killer with a traumatic past, not some child who needs coddling.

As I’m taking one of the last bites on my plate, she continues, “Are you on parole?”

“Jasmine—”

“Mom!”

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