Page 69 of Every Broken Piece
“Hey.”
I drop my head to look at him. His salt and pepper hair is mussed, making him look sexier than ever and reminding me that we’re worlds apart and not just financially.
“Trust me?” he asks.
Reluctantly, I nod. Trust isn’t the issue here. So many other things are the issue, but trust in him isn’t one of them. Sometime in the last few hours that wall came tumbling down. It should frighten me, but it doesn’t. It feels good to have one person I can trust in this world.
“Let me finish dinner. We’ll eat, then we’ll find a stupid movie on TV and chill for the rest of the night. We can worry about all this—” he waves at the envelopes scattered across the bar, “—tomorrow.”
He places a soft kiss on my forehead then gets up, sweeping all the mail into a big pile.
“What can I do to help?” I ask.
“Sit there and heal.”
I laugh, surprised that I can actually laugh in the face of everything happening to me. He smiles and oh, how those gorgeous blue eyes crinkle at the corners. I could so easily fall for him if I let myself.
You already have, you big doofus.
Ignoring that annoying voice, I say, “Let me at least get the plates out and set the table.” We’ll have to eat at the breakfast bar since I don’t have a table. The moment he walked into my apartment I’m hyper aware of every worn spot, every sagging couch cushion and mark on the wall. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about where I live considering where I came from, but for a man like Gabe, I’m sure it looks horrendous and the last thing I want is his pity.
“You know your way around a kitchen,” I say as I pull glasses off a shelf and fill them with ice and water.
“Not really,” he says. “This is about the only thing I know how to make. Jack’s a better cook than me.” He starts plating our dinner and waves me toward the barstools. “When Pax was little Jack and I tried to make sure he had as many homemade meals as possible, so we traded off cooking duties.”
I take a bite of chicken parm and groan. “Ohmygod, this is... Gabe.” Realizing I’m talking with my mouth full I chew and swallow as I’m forking up more. “This is delicious.”
When he doesn’t answer I glance up to find him watching my mouth with razor sharp concentration and heat in his eyes. I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. He blinks and looks down at his plate. “Glad you like it.”
We eat in silence for a few awkward minutes. Did I see what I thought I saw in his gaze? Am I making this up? Projecting my own misguided feelings on him?
Feeling self-conscious and needing to divert whatever it was that just happened between us, I say, “Tell me about Pax.”
For a long while he doesn’t answer. The scraping of our forks against plates are the only sound in the apartment and I fear I overstepped by asking him something that might be too personal.
“I’m sorry,” I say when so much time has passed that the awkwardness has returned. “You don’t have to talk about him.”
“No, I want to,” he says. “I just don’t know how much of my story you know.”
I lay my fork down and wipe my mouth with the napkin before taking a drink of water. “Whenever I’m assigned a new client, I try to find out as much as I can about them. It helps me help you.”
He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know if I should be happy or upset about that. There’s been a lot written about me, not all of it good.”
“I only read the good ones.” I grin. “You’ve been very successful.”
“In some things, yes.”
Interesting choice of words. What does he think he failed at? Being a father? A husband? Not building a big enough empire?
He drains his glass of water and gets up to refill it. Instead of coming back to his seat, he leans against the sink, facing me.
“Cara, my wife, died when Pax was two years old. She was in a car accident. Crossing a train track when a train hit her.”
It’s one thing to read about his life, another to hear it from the man whose world was shattered. The grief is in the hitch of his voice, the quick blink of his eyes, and the sudden drop of his shoulders.
He stares down into his glass. “Things were confusing and scary for a long time after that. Our marriage was very old-fashioned. I worked. Cara took care of Pax. That’s how she wanted it, and she loved being a mother. After she was gone... I didn’t know how to raise a son by myself.” He pauses. I wait, motionless, not knowing if I should stop him or if he needs to get this off his chest. “Suddenly, I was alone with a baby who missed his mama. It was all on me and it was terrifying. Jack saw me struggling. He moved in with me and it was the three of us for a long time. Two men and a baby.” His grin is sad and nostalgic. “Neither of us knew what to do with Pax so we just kind of went with it. We were a mess, but you know? It’s those memories I cherish the most.” He puts his glass on the counter and spreads his arms wide behind him, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “Jack stayed with us until Pax turned thirteen, but he didn’t go far. He moved to the apartment below us. He’s still there and it’s still just the three of us.”
“I’m sorry that you lost Cara so young, but I’m happy that you had Jack.”
