Stepbrother Thief(106)

“So tell me,” I prompt, leaning back and crossing my legs at the knee. I haven't even looked at the menu yet. I hope our waiter's used to less frantic dining experiences because we're taking our time tonight. If we were in Paris, I wouldn't have to think twice about it. Here in the States … well, we'll just order drinks and desserts to keep him busy. “I can take it.”

I smile, even though the subject isn't really something to smile about at all. But I want to set Gill at ease—need to set him at ease. We both can't go into this with emotions high and feelings bubbling up; good couples take turns being vulnerable.

I cross my arms over my chest and then spot the wine list lying next to my menu. I reach out and pick it up, scanning the names until I find one I know I'll like. When the waiter comes back, I'm ordering a whole bottle of it. Maybe two.

Gill glances away for a moment before looking back at me, the quiet murmur of the other restaurant patrons a perfect backdrop for this conversation. I can't freak out in here, can't yell or sob or pace. Putting myself into this environment forces me to keep calm, to listen, and to process anything and everything Gill says in the most rational way possible.

But shit … it's hard to be rational with those baby blues locked onto my face like that. So intense, so focused. It takes a physical effort to hold his gaze.

“I hate that a mistake from so long ago is haunting me today,” Gill says on the end of a breath, shoulders straight, black hair drying under the warm lights from the chandeliers. “But I love that you're sitting here with me now, willing to forgive those mistakes … and all of their unintended consequences.” Gill pauses again, eyes taking in my face, tracing my lips. Unconsciously, I find my tongue traveling over them. Gill blinks several times and then shakes his head like he's trying to stay on track here. “Even if you change your mind after you hear what I have to say, I still owe you a thanks.” He smiles at me. “So thank you, Regina. For listening to me, for trying.”

“For doing,” I say, reaching out and laying my fingers atop his, doing my best to ignore the jump in his pulse, the way his eyes flick to my hand and back to my face. “Because I won't change my mind, no matter what.” I lean forward, damp strands of hair falling across my forehead and brushing against my cheeks. “Let it out; let it fucking go.”

Gill adjusts himself, leaving his left hand in my grip but glancing casually over his right shoulder, like he's just checking for our waiter or something. In all reality, he's probably trying to decide how much he should say here, how much detail he should give, or how loudly he should give it.

He turns back to me.

“Too bad this story doesn't begin with once upon a time,” Gill says, voice tight.

I keep smiling.

“They never do.” I shrug my shoulders like this is nothin', like I talk about my dead mom every Sunday over lunch with the girls. Inside, my stomach twists into a knot. “Just … start wherever you feel comfortable.” I make my smile a little wider and lean back. “And maybe if we're lucky, it'll all end with a happily ever after?”

“Fuck, I hope so,” Gill murmurs and then shakes his head like he either can't or won't allow myself to think too hard about that. “I guess … my mom. This all started because of her.” Gill stares at me for a moment longer and then drops his eyes back to the tabletop, like he'd rather not look directly at me right now. Guilty. That's what it is: he looks guilty.

“My mom,” Gill begins again, and already I can feel his fingers curling into a fist beneath my hand, “you know how bad she was before I came to live with you and Elena. The drugs, the abusive boyfriends, the religious babble.” Gill runs his tattooed hand over his face. “The only thing I ever wanted to do was keep her safe.”

Gill stops talking suddenly, like he can sense something I don't. It ends up just being our waiter, pausing to take our drink orders. At least I'll have a glass of wine in my hand when I hear this story. Knowing Gilleon and what he went through with this mother, I can tell this story's going to break my heart. Even now, today, all these years later and he hurts for her. His depth of emotion's admirable.

“I killed a boy,” he says quietly, the words barely escaping his lips before they're drowned in the sea of voices and the clank of glassware, the rush of cool air as a new couple enters the restaurant and checks their coats. “A teenager, I guess,” he adds, eyes glazing over a bit as he stares down into his water glass, lost in a memory. The dialogue pauses again as our wine appears and I stop to taste it, nodding in approval before our waiter pours Gill a glass and disappears again. He doesn't ask if we're ready to order, like he can tell we need more time.