Emma froze, her fingers tightening as memories of Dean’s father swamped her. The man had scared her, nearly as much as Dean’s brothers. Back then she could never understand how her sweet, tender lover could have come from the same family.
Dean paused, waiting to see if she would say anything, but when she remained silent he carried on, the deep tone to his voice turning more gravelly the longer he spoke, as if he was forcing out the words. “All I could see at that moment was this selfish, prejudiced bastard who didn’t want anything good for me. I was already mad, and I just hit him again and again. It was like this haze settled over me, and by the time I got control of myself, he was on the floor, barely breathing.”
God. “I never heard a word.”
Dean shook his head. “Confess that his nineteen-year-old son had put him on the ground? Not my old man. Not the self-declared champion of every dirty underground fight club in the area. That would be like admitting I wasn’t the weak loser he’d always called me.”
“He could have pressed charges.”
“Maybe, but he liked to hurt me himself. Letting the law do it wouldn’t have been his style.” Dean got up and walked over to the couch. He settled in the single chair to the side of her, dragging a hand through his hair and leaving it a rumpled mess. Then he leaned forward on his elbows. “I couldn’t stay. Getting the hell out seemed like the only option, so I hopped on a bus, skipped town and enlisted. I had the money in my pocket and not much more, and by the time I realized what a shit I’d been, I was off in basic training and I wasn’t coming back.”
Emma sighed. Her heart ached for the kids they’d been. For what he’d dealt with in the past.
But it didn’t change anything about the present.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she said honestly. “No one should ever fear their father.”
Dean nodded sadly. “Afterward, when I realized I should’ve talked to you, I tried to get in touch. I called, and texted, and e-mailed, but your number had changed and you never answered my e-mails.”
“I was mad. You’d been silent for months at that point, so I didn’t care anymore.” Total lie. She’d cared too much. Emma swallowed as a mess of emotions swirled through her. “Plus, I managed to get into the design program I’d turned down after you and I decided to move in together. I contacted them and ended up on a waitlist, and when someone canceled out four months later, I left Taraville and headed to Italy.”
“Then to Paris and London. And now New York.” Dean awkwardly gestured to the elegant suite around them. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
She stole a glance at her watch, suddenly reminded of the walking disaster that was Lorenzo. “It’s not what I expected, but it’s a decent life.”
“You’ve seen a bit of the world.”
Where was he going with this? “You did, too, I’m sure. When you were in the army.”
Dean shrugged. “Military tours aren’t quite the same thing. They’re more like crawling around the underbelly of a city instead of touring the Crown Jewels.”
Emma was at a total loss about how to end this, so she simply rose to her feet, and Dean reluctantly did the same. “Look, as unorthodox as your entry to my suite was, I’m glad you told me everything. But now if you don’t mind, I have some work to do.”
She attempted to usher him toward the door, but he stood there like an unmovable statue. Folding his arms, he tilted his head to the side. “I’d swear you were trying to get rid of me.”
“You said you wanted to apologize. To explain. You’ve done both.” An enormous sigh escaped her. “Dean, I really am sorry for everything that happened to you. I think it’s absolutely horrific, and if your father were still alive I would give the man a piece of my mind he would never forget. But it was a long time ago. So… ”
“So, you accept my apology?”
“Of course.” She brushed past him on the way to the door, crossing her fingers that he would follow behind her because if he didn’t move—
His soft tread sounded in her wake. “Can we talk again? Maybe have lunch sometime and catch up?”
She opened the door and clung to the doorknob, holding it in a white-knuckled grip behind her back. “I’m sorry, I don’t have too many opportunities for socializing. I really do need to get back to work.”
“Emma.” He spoke so quietly and tenderly, the way he used to when he was trying to sweet-talk her into doing something he knew she was hesitant to try. “Go out for lunch with me.”
She held on to the door, praying it would help her keep vertical. “I don’t think we have very much in common anymore.”