“We have time.”
“O-Kay.” I sit down at the tiny two-seat table, across from him. The room seems to shrink to half its size with a man like Blake in the room. I pick up the coffee in front of me and take a sip. Mmm, so good. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in the expensive coffee shop stuff.
Blake leans back in his seat, his head tilted to the side, observing. I sip my drink, the uncomfortable silence tingling my skin.
“So this is where you live.” His casual statement matches his body language.
I look around, ashamed of our meager home. “Yeah. For now. I’m hoping to get some money saved to move to a better place.”
He looks around the space, then back at me, his expression blank. “How long?”
“Until we move?”
He nods.
“Six months? Nine? Depends.”
He drums his fingers against the tabletop. “On what?”
“My paychecks.”
The beat of his fingers gets louder. “What about Axelle’s dad? You’ve got to be getting some child support or—”
I shake my head, silencing him. “No. I’m getting nothing from him. That was the deal.” My shoulders are tight, my lower back pushed off the seat back, as my false self-confidence works to hide my unease.
No longer relaxed, he leans forward, his forearm resting on the table. “What was the deal?”
“Blake, you don’t want to sit here and listen to my sob story.” Clearing my throat, I try to imitate the confident tone Blake uses when he talks. “I’m sure you can figure it out. Let’s just say Elle and I are on our own. Completely.”
“What about your parents? Axelle’s grandparents? Don’t they—”
“No. They don’t.” I stab my fingers into my hair and flex.
“I’m trying to understand why in the motherfucking hell you and your girl are out here alone and not one person gives a shit. Can you explain that to me? I wish you would. ’Cause then I wouldn’t be sittin’ up all night trying to figure out what the hell makes you, you.”
I lean back and slouch down in my seat. As much of a cocky asshole Blake can be, he sounds genuinely concerned. And thanks to him, my car is in the shop and my daughter’s driving the most amazing piece of American Hot Rod around. I suppose I could let him in.
I trace the logo on my coffee cup with my thumb. “My parents were in their forties when they had me. Their only child got pregnant at sixteen, didn’t do much for their stress levels. Dad had a heart attack about five years ago, and they moved to a retirement home in Florida. I told myself I’d never burden them with my problems again. They deserve better.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. He crosses his arms, sandwiching his hands between his ribs and his biceps.
“They think Stewart and I parted on good terms and I moved to Las Vegas with his consent. I called to let them know we got here okay, haven’t heard from them since.” I count back. That was three weeks ago. “Growing old is doing a number on their memory. Probably forgot they have a daughter and a grandkid.” I laugh, but it’s not funny.
Blake drops his chin to his chest, a low rumble rolling from his throat.
“It’s okay. I’m happy to live here, work hard, and start over. I just want to give Elle the kind of life she deserves.”
Emotion swirls behind his bright, moss-colored eyes as they stare deeply into mine. He tilts his head. “You left… for her?”
My breath catches at the shift in his questions, from curious to super personal. But the desperate look in his eyes, the way his brows are pulled in, like he needs my answer more than air, tugs at my heart. “We had a horrible, loveless marriage. Those are painful for everyone involved, but it’s the kids who suffer the—”
“You left to protect her. He hurt you?” he whispers.
Without permission to do so, my head bobs slowly. “Yeah, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Fuck me.” The fierce curse shoots from his lips in a hiss. He drops his head into his hands, kneading his eyes with the heel of his palms.
Strong reaction from a guy I hardly know. He probably thinks Stewart slapped us around. “It’s not like he hit us or anything.” The abuse I suffered at the hands of my husband wasn’t the kind that left physical scars.
His hands move from his forehead to the back of his neck and lock there. “Go get dressed, Mouse.”
“Blake, don’t think—”
“Go. Now.” He orders me away, and something tells me it’s more for my protection than needing to get to work.
His eyes blaze with a hatred that I’ve only ever seen in my husband. But this isn’t scary. It’s comforting. God, I’m sick.
I hurry from the table and head for my room.
“Layla.”
I stop and look over my shoulder.
“Wear your hair down.”
That sounded like an order. I feel my eyes narrow. I don’t take orders from men. Not anymore. And never again.
I don’t respond, but walk straight to my bathroom and grab the tightest ponytail holder I can find.