Page 25 of Dirty Secret Love

“Where is your dad?” I ask tentatively, my voice softer, wondering why he hasn’t mentioned him much throughout the conversation.

“He died almost a year ago,” he says, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, and regret tugs at my heart for potentially opening a wound. Why did I push?

Some stories are meant to remain untold, I scold myself.

“Life happens . . . hopefully he’s with Mom finally living a peaceful life.” He looks up, a soft smile tugging on his lips, as if he’s trying to find comfort in that thought.

“That’s a bit of a morbid happily ever after,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I don’t add that it could make a great paranormal romance but that’s a thought for another day.

“I want to believe that even a man like him could be forgiven and sent to a place where he can find peace in death.” He leans back, resting his hip on the counter.

“This is getting too dark, maybe we should talk about pets.” I shake my head and try to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Mom taught me that in life there has to be a balance between sadness and happiness. You can’t fully appreciate one without having experienced the other.” He punctuates his statement by sipping from his drink. “But you can always tell me about Daisy. She seems like a great companion.”

“What makes you happy?” I ask, following his train of thought and forgetting about my girl. We’ll discuss her enough once we’re back at my place, and she shows him who rules the house.

“Lately, it’s been finding a good book at the library and immersing myself in it until it’s time to head over to the restaurant,” he says, eyes distant. And it makes me happy to learn that getting him new books weekly helps him while he’s in Heartwood Lake.

“You enjoy working at the restaurant?” I inquire, tilting my head curiously.

“Overall, yes. Though, there are certain moments I like more. Before our shifts, Gael feeds us—Jez, Bach, and me. It’s one of the few times he really makes us feel like part of the family,” he admits, eyes moistening for a split second.

“You know, you’re a lot more likable when you let down that guard of yours,” I say gently.

“In my family, showing vulnerability is a sign of weakness,” he retorts, shoulders tensing, voice edged.

“But it isn’t,” I argue, trying to break through his defenses.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. How about I cook you something and in the meantime, we can chat about lighter topics?” he suggests, attempting to shift the focus.

“You’re going to cook for me, like you did back in New York?” I ask, hoping to ease him back into our easy banter. I loathe the emotional distance he’s trying to build.

I shouldn’t care, but I can’t go from having this fun exchange to having a metaphorical door shut in my face.

He winks, the familiar playful glint returning. “Exactly, remember how I impressed you with my culinary abilities?”

“Do all of you know how to cook, or is it just you and Gael?”

“I’m not sure about the rest,” he replies, leaning over to peek into the fridge, his gaze scanning the shelves.

I tilt my head, puzzled by his family’s dynamic. How can he not know the basics about them?

I might not get along with my siblings, but I know all about them. Like how Spencer is shitty in the kitchen. He could burn water if it was possible. And Sailor? Well, she’s trying to become the second coming of Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart—minus the marriage scandals and jail time, respectively.

“Is Gael a professional chef?” I ask because that might be the only way he knows why his brother is good in the kitchen.

He looks momentarily puzzled as he rummages through the cabinets for pots and pans. “What?”

“Well, I figured he probably works or owns a restaurant, that’s why he’s so skillful,” I say. “He insists that he’s the only one who can use the kitchen at Jez’s. I’m just impressed that she hasn’t kicked his ass—or fired him.”

He chuckles, pausing for a moment. “Why don’t you relax and watch some TV while I handle dinner?”

“I can help you,” I quickly interject, wondering why he’s not confirming or denying what I just said about his brother.

There’s a sense of ease in our exchange that I haven’t felt in a long time. Pulling away from that feels almost wrong.

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