Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
My statement from earlier starts to turn me the color of the flames before us. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said this morning, just that you guys are so similar. In the best ways, I—” I swallow my tongue.
He smiles but it’s a little brittle. “That was a compliment, Cammie Girl. I’m proud to be like him. I want to be like him because I am his son. In every way that matters to me, I am.”
“But if I had known, I never would have made such a splash pointing out you’re…”
“Physically different?” he offers. “It’s okay. It’s obvious to everyone, so much so I’m sure people have wondered over the years but didn’t ask.”
“That never even crossed my mind, Brady, I swear. This is big and I feel like an asshole right now.”
“It’s okay,” he laughs softly. “Like I said, it’s not a bad thing. It’s just …I don’t really like acknowledging it, you know? Feels a little fucked up.” There’s a strain over his brows and he turns away, messing with his napkin a bit.
It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it, even if he thought maybe he did, so I reach over, taking his hand and weaving our fingers together, waiting for him to look my way to say, “Thank you for telling me.” My voice is low, barely a whisper, and the emotion that it draws to his face is too much, so I give him a small smile to try to lighten the mood. “I mean, even if I basically forced it out of you and I’m the last to know. What am I, chopped liver?”
“Nah.” His chuckle is low. “You’re at least fried calamari.”
Laughter spurts from me but it fades, and I reach out, cupping his cheek.
He leans into my touch, reaching up to hold my wrist in place. “You know I didn’t intentionally keep that a secret, right?” he says, clearly worried. “He is my dad, and saying differently just…”
“I know,” I assure him. “And you know nothing you tell me could ever change things between us, right?”
“What if I want it to?” he asks suddenly, softly. “What if there are things I want to say, things I want to share, that I hope change a few things?”
My heart hammers behind my ribs. “What kind of things?”
He stares for so long that when his mouth finally lifts on one side, I jolt.
Brady shifts so his body faces mine while I still sit forward, the coffee table in front of me. “Let me feed you.”
“What?” I chuckle, his sudden change of subject throwing me off a little.
“You heard me.” He reaches down, gripping the pillow under my ass and tugging it the few inches left between us. He stretches his legs out around me, his thighs framing me on both sides.
He picks up the fork and stabs a small piece of pork he already cut and drags it through the potatoes, making sure both are drenched in the white gravy. Brady holds it up expectantly, and a surprising heat crawls up my chest.
Even my hands start to shake a little, so I put them under my legs as my lips part. He doesn’t move in slow motion, but it feels that way as he inches closer, his attention locked on me as his fork meets my tongue and I seal my lips around the silverware.
Slowly, he withdraws, and I close my eyes. Not in a flash of food euphoria, though the flavors are amazing as always, but at the foreign intimacy this moment brings me.
It’s unfamiliar and full of promise, almost as if right here, right now, we’re on the edge of something we’ve yet to figure out.
It’s a little scary because what if this is all wrong?
What if familiarity and comfort are being mistaken for more?
Oh my god, I like-like him. That’s what this is.
My eyes flutter open, finding tenderness staring back at me. Brady’s hand lifts, thumb swiping along the edge of my lower lip, before it disappears between his own.
My chest feels suddenly heavy, achy, and I want to lean into him…but I don’t.
Brady smiles softly, his gaze dropping to his lap for a moment. In the next, he’s shoving his fork into my mac and cheese and shoveling a massive bite for himself, smiling with his mouth full when I gape at him.
“I was saving that bite!”
“I know,” he laughs, rubbing his stomach dramatically. “It was a really good bite.”
“Ass.” I shove him in the chest, and he catches my hand, linking our fingers and giving them a little squeeze as he flicks his gaze toward the clock.
“I’ve gotta get to sleep soon.”
“That’s right. Coach Brady’s coming out to play tomorrow.”
He smirks, but neither of us move.
Before I can think too hard, before he can, I sit up, sliding my knees over his until I’m straddling him.