Page 13 of Engaging his Enemy
Oh, Jesus, she couldn’t say no to that look. Damn him for being so good-looking, so sincere when he wanted to be. Especially when she knew he was right about this one, how could she possibly refuse? She crossed her arms and sighed shakily. “Just so you can get to know Wyatt.”
Not so you can break my heart again.
“Thank you.” He took her hand and squeezed it, releasing it before she could react. “What’s he like?”
“Smart. Talented. Great sense of humor, occasionally used for evil purposes.”
“What’s it been like?”
“What?”
He shrugged. “All of it. I missed so much. How much was Ben around here?”
She rolled her eyes and stood. “Ah, that’s what you want to know. Not how was it raising our kid without me, Davina, but how much was Ben around here?” She shook her head, putting away the peanut butter. “That’s all you care about, this age-old war between the two of you. Well, I’m not getting involved. You want to know how much Ben was a part of Wyatt’s life, then ask them yourself. I’m going to bed.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to stop asking about Ben.”
“Don’t try, do.”
He nodded. “Think Wyatt’s still awake?”
“I don’t know.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Why don’t you go see?”
He turned toward them, his purposeful strides all too familiar. From this angle, it was virtually impossible to tell one Sato brother from another, though it occurred to her she might be one of the only people who could.
She frowned. How two brothers could be so much alike yet so different was beyond her. The amount of animosity between them was brutal, everything a competition, with Zach always winning. There’d been a time in her life when she’d been blinded by young love, seeing only that Zach had been perfect and Ben highly flawed. But she’d had ten years of watching Ben work hard to overcome his difficulties and had gotten a solid appreciation for the man.
She rubbed her temple. Fatigue crested over her like an ocean wave, the stress of the last few days weighing her down. Her eyes flashed to the ceiling, beyond which her son was talking to his dad for the first time, and she said a silent prayer it was going well. “Come on, Piggy. Time for bed.” She turned off the kitchen light and made her way upstairs.
8
At least she let me stay.
Talking to Davina was like dancing on hot coals. If she stayed in any one place too long, he was bound to get burned. Whether it was talk of Wyatt or her anger with Moto for being so late tonight, virtually any topic between them held the potential to sear into his skin like a branding iron.
He’d managed to secure a spot under her roof, and that was all he’d been hoping to accomplish for tonight. Well, that and talking to Wyatt.
He hadn’t expected to be drawn to her as they spoke, to feel the tension in the air thicken as it had when they’d been teenagers. His body had come to life just being near her, all the old desires rising up where they once had been.
That wasn’t something he was prepared to deal with. For even as she denied anything had happened between her and Ben, he could feel there was something she wasn’t telling him. Maybe it was him trying to protect himself from being hurt again. He would have thought himself incapable of that kind of heartbreak today, but he could see now it was because he hadn’t let anyone get that close to him since Davina.
She still held power over him, just as she had then, despite everything she’d done. The last person in the world he wanted in his life was Davina, and he swore to himself right then and there he would stay away from her.
The steps creaked beneath his feet. The stairway had been carpeted when he lived here as a boy, but now it was hardwood, the risers painted white. The wrought-iron railing had also been replaced with wood, the small changes altering the entire feel of the space.
Instead of pictures of Ben and Zach lining the walls, there were pictures of Wyatt and a few of Davina. The first one was Wyatt as a little kid holding a giant stuffed bear, smiling at the camera. Moto froze. The photo could have been of him as a child, so strong was the resemblance, though he did have Davina’s round cheeks and dimples.
Next were Wyatt’s class pictures. Moto’s throat constricted as he stopped to commit each image to memory. He found himself wondering where he’d been when each one was taken, from Kandahar to Germany or California, and what he himself had been doing at that exact moment.
He could guarantee it was less important than what he’d missed. He thought of his words to Davina long ago—I would have been a used car salesman like my dad—and knew it wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had his son in his life.
He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, his old bedroom coming into view. He poked his head in to find a neat room with a four-poster bed and a dresser. Definitely not Wyatt’s room. He made his way to the next bedroom. The door was closed, decorated with a soccer ball sticker half peeled from its backing. His pulse raced as he knocked.
“What?”
“It’s Zach.” The name sounded strange on his lips. When was the last time he identified himself by his given name? “I was hoping we could talk.”
After what seemed a lifetime, the door opened halfway, a scowling Wyatt framed across the threshold. “About what?”
