Page 75 of Whirlwind
“Right. So, thank you for being a voice of reason for me.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, pressing another kiss to my lips. A girl could feel spoiled with such free affection. “I had something else I meant to talk to you about last night.”
“Good something or bad something?”
“Good. Or I hope you think it’s good,” he says, his brow wrinkling. “The Blades have their foundation gala in a couple of weeks. I was hoping you’d go with me.”
Dates don’t get invited to the gala. Wives and girlfriends do. Tyson and I haven’t put labels on what’s happening between us; we’ve had no conversation about it. Which is something I’ve appreciated. He lets me go at my own pace, whether that’s as slow as a sloth or speed-running through it.
With my limited experience, I can’t say how many men would have shown the amount of care and patience Tyson has. I suspect it isn’t a high percentage—especially of men who look like him, are successful pro athletes, and have a line of women waiting and willing.
Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask him about.
“Can I ask you something, first?”
“Anything.”
“Why the sex worker?”
He releases a deep sigh. Worry wrinkles around his eyes.
“I was in my head after Isla and Cillian got back together. Had my own daily pity party and everything. I was reckless and stupid, picking up random women at every opportunity to try and fill some void,” he says. “I constantly felt like I was walking around with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove. My competitive nature was getting the best of me in the worst way. When she approached me that night, all I saw were her freckles. Not the price tag, the potential ramifications, or my career.”
“So, you’re not that great at compartmentalizing,” I say, remembering what he said last night on the boat. I’m not sure how it makes me feel, that he hired her because of an attribute that reminded him of Isla. My gut twists some, but my head knows that’s stupid. He has a past—we all do. His just involvedother people in ways mine hasn’t. That’s not his fault. If only my jealous side could catch up to my logical side.
“I am,” he says with conviction. “For a few months, I was messy, then I got my shit together. I’m not the man I was then.” His mouth opens, as if there’s more he wants to say, but he stops himself.
“Tell me the rest.”
“Don’t let this scare you,” he says with that grin I’ve come to look forward to. “But I’m not even the same man I was when I came to Seattle. And I have you to credit for that.”
“Me? Why? All I’ve done is be a spying neighbor and a test of your willpower,” I say, and he bursts with laughter.
“No, Kit,” he says, lifting me by my underarms so I can wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He walks us to the kitchen, perching me on the edge of the counter. “You’ve been oxygen to my lungs. You are the most refreshing thing to ever stumble into my life. You make me think from a different perspective and contemplate things I’ve never considered. You’ve made me a better man in mere weeks.”
“I’m the air you breathe?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“Yes, you fucking brat. Do you want some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
“Can I ask you something, now?” He takes eggs from the refrigerator, first, then digs around, inventorying vegetables.
“It’s only fair.”
“How close are you to your grandmother? You don’t talk about her much, either.”
“We’re complicated,” I say.
“How so?” He grabs ham, cheese, an onion, and a red pepper, and begins chopping.
“I love her, but I don’t have a lot of respect for her. I mean, she’s done the best she knows how. But has never had the courage to try for better,” I tell him. She’s not a strong woman and, by default, centers men in her life—when it should have been me who was most important to her as a child. She never complained about watching me while my dad worked, but she also never stood up to him when he was cruel to me. “I know she loves me, too. But neither of us makes much effort. I haven’t been home since moving here, so I haven’t seen her in a decade.”
“This is your home. Not Maine,” he says, reaching over to massage my hand that is clenched into a fist. I hadn’t even noticed I’d done it, but he had. Tyson is always so calm, a balm for me every time my edges start to fray. I’m jittery and tense so often, and he’s like a warm lavender bath soothing it all away.
I’m not sure how he notices everything that he does about me, while I also wonder how I can offer anything of equal value in return. What do I bring to his life that compares to how he supports me?
Do Irefreshhim enough to be an equal in his world? Can I give him what I think he eventually wants in life? Marriage? A family?
