“Never liked that boy,” Mr. Hayes mutters. For once, he and I are on the same page.
Allie chews her last bite of gravy-laden mashed potatoes before voicing a protest. “Aw, that’s not true. You guys always got along when we came to visit you.”
Her father chuckles. Well, look at that, he’s actually capable of conveying humor. I never would have guessed.
“He was your boyfriend—I had no choice but to get along with him. Now he’s not, so I don’t have to pretend to like him anymore.”
I cover up a laugh behind my napkin.
“Boy was too needy,” Mr. Hayes continues. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“How did he look at me?” Allie asks warily.
“Like you were his entire world.”
She frowns. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Damn right it is. Nobody should ever be someone else’s entire world. That’s not healthy, AJ. If your whole life is centered on one thing—one person—whatcha going to be left with if that person goes away? Absolutely nothing.” He gruffly reiterates, “Not healthy.”
Joe Hayes has a very practical way of looking at things. I’m oddly impressed.
“Well, now you’re just making me feel bad for Sean. Let’s change the subject. Dean, tell my dad about your last game.”
I sigh ruefully. “Really? The one I got thrown out of?”
Her dad harrumphs. “Of course.”
The conversation becomes strained again. I’m relieved when it’s finally time to clear the table, eagerly standing up to help Allie gather the dishes. There’s still half a turkey left in the serving platter, which Mr. Hayes reaches for as he staggers to his feet.
“No, Dad,” Allie says in a strict voice. “Go and watch the rest of the game. Dean and I can clean up.”
“I’m not an invalid, AJ,” he grumbles. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying one plate to the kitchen.”
No sooner do the words exit his mouth than the platter wobbles in his hand. Or rather, his hand wobbles and the platter follows suit, abruptly slipping from his grip and smashing to the hardwood.
The ceramic shatters to pieces, sending the slippery turkey careening across the floor. I immediately set down my plates and hurry around the table. Allie does the same, and our heads bump when we both reach for the same broken piece.
“Goddamn it,” Mr. Hayes bites out. “I’ll take care of the mess.”
“No.” Her tone isn’t strict anymore—it’s commanding. She snatches the ceramic shard from my hand and says, “Dean, would you take Dad to the living room and make sure he stays there?”
Her father levels me with a death glare that makes my balls shrivel up, but no way am I facing Allie’s wrath right now. Stifling a sigh, I lightly clasp Joe’s arm and lead him out of the small dining room.
The scowl stays fixed on his face even after he’s settled on the couch. “I could’ve cleaned it up myself,” he informs me.
“I know.” I shrug. “But I think we made the right call sneaking out of there. For such a tiny little thing, your daughter sure is terrifying when she’s trying to get her way.”
His lips curve ever so slightly. Holy shit, did I almost make him smile?
But whatever shred of humor I might have induced disappears before I can blink. Mr. Hayes lowers his voice to a deadly pitch and asks, “What do you want with AJ?”
I shift in confusion. “I don’t understand the question.”
“I see the way you look at her, too.” His jaw begins to twitch, but I don’t know if it’s from anger, or the disease he’s battling. “You like her.”
“Of course I do,” I say awkwardly. “We’re friends.”
“Don’t feed me that bull. I’ve been alive a lot longer than you, pretty boy. You think I can’t tell when a man is in lust?”
And I thought the dinner conversation was uncomfortable.
“I get it. AJ’s a catch. She’s smart, pretty like her mom. She’s caring—too damn caring sometimes,” he admits. “If she loves you, she’ll always put your needs ahead of hers.” And I know he’s talking about his own relationship with Allie now. It’s obvious that because of his MS, she puts his needs first, not to mention coddles him more than he likes.
“She needs a man who will take care of her.” His voice goes soft for a moment, but then it sharpens. “You’re not that man, kid. You’re incapable of that.”
Insult prickles my skin. Who is he to make that sort of judgment?
He notices my frown and chuckles. “I was a hockey scout for more than twenty years—you think you’re the first cocky SOB I’ve met in my life? Cockier, too, because you grew up with money. You already have that entitled sense of importance that comes after a player signs his first seven-figure contract.”