“So far, I haven’t said anything I’d like to take back,” I replied and his eyebrows shot up.
“So you’re good with threatenin’ to take you away from me, you, somethin’ you know I want and I want it bad, bad enough to work at it, bad enough to twist myself in fuckin’ knots for it because you’re justifiably pissed but unjustifiably not opening your mind to where I was comin’ from and therefore not seein’ I’m explaining myself or givin’ me a shot at apologizing?”
That shut me up because unfortunately he was right. I was mad. I wasn’t listening. And I’d threatened to take me away from him when he was definitely working on us and doing it by twisting himself into knots.
I didn’t speak. Hop didn’t either.
This lasted a very long time. So long, I was inwardly squirming and it was so uncomfortable, I was about to say something to smooth things over, get us back on track.
Unfortunately, I waited one second too long to do this.
“Fuck me, I can add fuckin’ stubborn to high maintenance and a drama queen. Not good, babe,” he bit off.
My temper, which was cooling, flared again.
“I’m not high maintenance!” I exclaimed and he pushed away from the sink.
“Seriously?” he asked incredulously. “Been in your bed when you get up at fuckin’ five thirty in the fuckin’ mornin’ to do your gig in the bathroom before you go to work and I’ve hauled your shit up to my bedroom so you can do it at my place. Lanie, you live fifteen minutes away from your office and you get there at eight. Over two hours every day just to do your hair and makeup. Diana fuckin’ Ross in her heyday probably took less time to get ready for a show. Babe, if that isn’t high maintenance, I do not know what is.”
The Diana Ross comment was funny but I didn’t laugh.
“I eat breakfast in that time too, Hopper,” I reminded him.
“You swallow down some yogurt and suck back coffee, lady. You don’t bake a quiche and eat it at your dining room table with cloth napkins and mimosas,” he fired back.
It was unfortunate he was amusing when he was angry. Hop even saying the word “quiche” was hilarious.
I wanted to laugh. I really did.
I didn’t.
He wasn’t done.
“Fuck, you stand in your closet for a full fifteen minutes every fuckin’ time I’ve been at your house in the morning like you’re makin’ your wardrobe selection of the day to announce your candidacy for president.”
“Stop being funny, Hopper,” I hissed, leaning toward him, and he leaned toward me.
“Baby, I am not bein’ funny.”
I took in his expression.
He wasn’t being funny. Definitely not. He was funny but he wasn’t being funny.
He was angry and this was serious.
“You cushioned my fall.”
That came out of my mouth and I knew Hop didn’t get it when he blinked.
“Say again?” he asked.
“Chaos. You. Tyra. Tack. Big Petey. Brick. Dog.” I threw a hand out toward him. “You all cushioned my fall, Hop. You all knew how far I fell and landing after a fall like that could destroy you. It didn’t destroy me because Chaos cushioned my fall.”
The anger slid out of his face as his lips muttered, “Baby.”
I shook my head and kept talking.
“You all mean something to me. You’re family and you intimating that I might think I’m better than you or think badly about you…” I drew in breath before I admitted, “I went over the top when I got ticked because you all mean something to me and I don’t want any of you, because of my clothes or house or job or car, thinking I’d ever think bad things about you. And, for obvious reasons, I especially don’t want you to think that way.”
After I finished speaking, Hop held my eyes and I let him because I was soaking in the look he was giving me.
It was a look I’d never seen from him or anyone.
Not aimed at me.
But I’d seen it. I’d seen it hundreds of times.
I saw it when Tack was watching Ty-Ty with their sons. Or when she was giggling with his daughter Tabby. Or when she was goofing around with the guys and he was distanced but watching and liking what he saw.
Or, my favorite times, when he just caught sight of her walking into a room.
It was a look filled with warmth. A look filled with intimacy. A look of harmony.
The look of love.
Yes, right then, Hopper Kincaid was giving that look to me.
“Come here, lady,” he ordered gently and when I stayed frozen, stuck in the glow of his look and didn’t move immediately, he leaned toward me, hooked a finger in the belt loop of my jeans and he brought me there.