Beth Andrews - A Not-So-Perfect Past

She’d give just about anything to get even a tiny bit of that pride back.

“So. Do you have any other jobs lined up?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Great. So will—”

“No.”

She shook her head. “What?”

“I won’t work for you.”

“But why not?”

“I’m not going to be here.” The intensity of his gaze pinned her to her spot. “You wanted me gone, remember?”

She opened her mouth. Shut it again. Shoot.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “Good luck finding someone to take the job.”

She leaped forward. “You can stay,” she blurted, clutching his arms, “in the apartment. It’s not like I can afford a tea room now anyway.”

His brown eyes were guarded. “You didn’t evict me because of a tea room.”

“That was nothing personal—”

“Doesn’t matter.” His hands were large, warm and surprisingly gentle as he disentangled himself from her grip. “I’ve come to expect people to treat me a certain way, and so far, they haven’t disappointed me.”

Shocked, she stared at him. Is that what she’d done? All she’d wanted was to get her family and Trey off her back. And yes, maybe to give herself some peace of mind by asking Dillon to leave.

But she hadn’t meant to hurt him.

“Dillon, I’m so sor—”

“Don’t be. You did what you had to do and now I’m doing what I have to do. Find someone else for the job because I’m not interested in saving you.”

HER CHEEKS turned pink. He wondered if Nina’s skin was a soft as it looked. Man, she smelled good.

“But, if you don’t have any other jobs, you could work here,” she insisted. One thing for her: she might be a cupcake, but she was a stubborn cupcake. “I’m sure you’d be done by the end of the month.”

“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “Except I’m leaving after the wedding.”

“You could wait. Aren’t you celebrating Christmas with Kelsey and her family?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Please,” she said hoarsely. “Please.”

Damn it. He didn’t want to feel bad for her.

“Nina?” A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses opened the door, holding it wide for Kyle to walk in. The kid’s too-large feet shuffled against the linoleum, his thin frame lost in a pair of baggy jeans and sweatshirt, his left wrist wrapped in a light blue cast.

The man glanced at Dillon before focusing on Nina. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. We’re on our way back from our lawyer’s and Kyle has something he’d like to say to you.”

The kid’s shoulders slumped, his eyes hidden by his shaggy, brown hair. The man—Dillon assumed he was the kid’s foster father—cleared his throat.

Kyle lifted his head and shook his hair back giving them all a glimpse of the nasty purple bruise on his forehead. But he still didn’t meet Nina’s eyes. “I’m sorry for the accident. For the trouble.”

Nina’s lips tightened. She opened her mouth, then shut it, her face flushed, her eyes flashing. Dillon’s lips twitched and he ducked his head as he waited to see what she’d do next.

She inhaled and her expression cleared. Dillon suspected he was the only one who realized her smile was completely fake.

And the way she kept hiding her true feelings from everyone was really starting to bug him.

“Accidents happen,” she said in a high, chipper voice. “I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Nina,” the other man said, “can I talk to you? In private?”

“Of course. Come on in the kitchen.”

“I’ll be right back,” the guy told Kyle who just shrugged.

Dillon needed to leave, too. But instead of heading out, he heard himself say, “That was a piss-poor excuse for an apology.”

The kid snorted and rolled his eyes. “Her insurance will cover the damages.”

“Heard you might get sent away for this.”

“Listen, just because you helped me last night doesn’t make you my savior.”

“True.” He wasn’t anybody’s savior. Not anymore. Dillon started to leave before turning back. “You been to juvie before?”

“Not yet.” Kyle smirked. “You can fill me in since you know all about being sent away.”

Dillon fought to keep his expression neutral, to not grab the kid and try to scare some sense into him by telling him exactly what it was like to be put away. If he got sent away, he’d learn soon enough how things worked behind bars. He’d experience it all first hand.

The kid’s smart-ass attitude wouldn’t help him then.

“Besides, maybe Joe can talk the bakery lady into helping us out,” Kyle said.

Hope. The one thing Dillon had numbed himself against while in prison. The first thing he’d lost when he’d been locked up. The one thing he’d never gotten back.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself before,” the man said as he reentered the room and held a hand out to Dillon. “I’m Joe Roberts.”

“Dillon Ward.”

“I know. Nina told me. Thank you for your help last night.”

“All I did was get the kid out of the car,” he said uncomfortably. “The EMTs bandaged him up.”

“Still, my wife and I appreciate it.” He crossed to Kyle and laid a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “We’d better get going. We’re supposed to pick up dinner. Thanks again.”

After they left, Dillon stared blindly at the door. Kyle reminded him of Kelsey as a kid. She’d always been reaching out for something. And while he’d believed he’d been protecting her, he hadn’t really. He’d told her to smarten up but hadn’t done enough, hadn’t made those big gestures that show people what they mean to you. Show them the difference between right and wrong. He should’ve taken Kelsey away as soon as possible, gotten guardianship or something. Instead he’d just hoped she’d listen to him and not cause problems. And that their stepfather, Glenn, wouldn’t hurt her.

Look how well that had turned out.

Why hadn’t Nina returned from the kitchen? Obviously she didn’t want to see him again. He crossed the room but couldn’t force himself to walk out.

He lowered his head. Why did he have the feeling he was about to make a really big mistake?

But what the hell? It wouldn’t be the first time.

DILLON WALKED into the kitchen and stopped short when he noticed Nina at the small table.

Damn.

He stared down at the top of her bent head. Her shoulders shook and she was making these soft, hiccupping sounds—as if her entire world was crumbling.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Tears. God, he could handle just about anything. Imprisonment. Having the living hell beat out of him by three other prisoners. The days he’d spent in solitary confinement because he’d had to…protect himself.

But not a woman’s tears.

Indecision made him edgy. Should he put his hand on her shoulder? Murmur useless platitudes about how everything would be fine?

At a loss and way out of his element—not to mention his comfort zone—he scowled. “You going to swallow those tears back?” Startled, Nina lifted her head, her cheeks wet, her lips parted. “I never would’ve taken you for one of those women,” he added gruffly.

She sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “One of those women?” she asked, her tone surprisingly frigid for someone who’d just been bawling her eyes out. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“One of those women who cries when things don’t go their way, instead of standing up for themselves. Who whine and complain but never do anything to change their circumstances.”

Women like his mother.

“If I want to cry because my business, my finances and any chance I have at giving my children a decent life are all in danger, then I’ll damn well cry,” she told him as she stood. With her hands on the table, she leaned forward. “And if you can’t suck it up and take a few tears, then leave.”