Not Doing This With You

Hope

I sat down gingerly in the chair he pulled out for me, unsure of the purpose of the invitation.

“Hi, Ares.” Oh, eloquent. I tried again. “You come here often?”

I pursed my lips. Cringing, I looked up at him.

His mouth barely quirked, but his eyes most definitely smiled. “More often than I used to,” he murmured in response as he tucked my chair in behind me.

Angling his chair and dragging it closer to mine, he sat down, took a sip of his hot chocolate, and said, “Hi.”

“You have hot chocolate,” I stated with surprise. “I had you pegged for a black coffee kind of guy.”

“Why’s that?”

I waved my hand to the side to indicate his clothing as well as his demeanour. “Seemed like a good bet?”

His narrowed eyes assessed me. “I’m definitely not a basic black coffee kind of guy. Where’s the fun in that?”

He sounded like Giovanni. “Have you been talking to Giovanni?”

“What?” he asked surprised.

“That sounds like something Giovanni would say.”

He smiled widely. “Really? You chat with Giovanni about his sexual proclivities?”

My mouth dropped open. “We’re talking about sex?” My eyes skittered back and forth over our conversation before dropping to his mug. “So, you’re sweet?”

His eyebrows rose as he considered. His voice, when he finally spoke, sounded slightly breathless. “I think, for you, I could be.”

“You said ‘otherwise’,” I reminded him softly.

He winced. “I did. You terrify me.”

The tips of my fingers came to rest above my breasts in surprise. “Me?”

He gave me a half-smile. “You.”

“Why?”

He looked away from me, his eyes trained on the street outside. “Because there is only one of you.”

“I don’t understand what that means,” I admitted softly.

He looked back at me, his expression resigned. “Perhaps one day I’ll tell you. In the meantime, can I take you out for dinner?”

“Dinner,” I repeated stupidly. I contemplated the turmoil of emotions he stirred in me. “I can’t do this hot and cold. I don’t like to play games.”

“I understand it looks like that.” He sighed. “I didn’t have the best childhood. I wasn’t beaten or abused or anything, just kind of ignored. I don’t know how to ‘relationship’. I’m sorry for making you feel I was only playing.”

“I’m not sure what to say…”

I fiddled with the edge of my jacket. The warrior, the witch, the mother, and the siren conferred loudly inside me.

The siren was winning.

Surprisingly, the mother was on her side.

He continued doggedly. “My mom died giving birth to me. My dad remarried when I was four and my stepmother couldn’t stand me. I guess I was a handful. A little bit hyper. Some learning differences. I was difficult when she wanted easy.” He sucked in a breath and carried on as if determined finish. “If I wasn’t out at school, camp, or some other program, she made me stay in my room until my dad came home. Even then, she complained about me so incessantly, I chose to stay in my room so I didn’t have to hear it.”

My mouth fell open in shock, then snapped shut in anger.

He thought he wasn’t abused?

I reached across the table and tucked my hand under his, somehow knowing he would not accept me covering him. “That’s… that’s… She sounds horrible. Why did your dad marry her?”

He considered my small hand under his, then slowly curled his much larger hand around it. “She was pregnant.” He squeezed my fingers. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that seeing you with that man, for reasons I cannot fathom, infuriated me, and I lashed out at you.”

“You wouldn’t be furious if you knew how it happened.”

“Not sure I’m ready for the stories behind your dates,” he muttered.

I waved him away, laughing. “It wasn’t a date, but I’m not sure you’re ready for that story either.” I ducked my head. He never shared with me before. Would he venture further?

“You have siblings?”

“Half,” he replied shortly, then the ghost of a smile softened his face. “Two brothers and a sister who is thirteen years younger than me.”

“You love your sister,” I stated, the answer clear.

He leveled me with those dark, fathomless eyes. “I haven’t seen my sister since the night I left home.”

“What about your father?”

His face blanked entirely as I hit the source of his pain.

“He paid. For everything. Every program she signed me up for, lunch programs, after school programs, after dinner sports and activities, he paid for them. He picked me up at the end of the night which was the extent of the time he spent with me. That continued until I was fourteen when his three younger children required chauffeuring to all their activities. I was relegated to public transport and his involvement in my life dwindled to nothing.”

“Ares,” I murmured softly.

He looked at me warily. “Please let me finish and don’t ask any more questions.”

I nodded my agreement.

He took a deep breath and continued. “He bought me a car when I turned sixteen and got my license. At nineteen, his wife kicked me out. He allowed it. But paid for my apartment.” He picked at an invisible piece of lint on his pants. “She didn’t want him to pay. It was the only time he went against her.”

“Ares,” I whispered. “That’s terrible.”

Abruptly, he yanked his hand away from mine. “I’m not telling you this to gain your sympathy. But even I can see I need to give you some sort of explanation for my screwed-up behavior if I’m asking you to spend time with me.”

“Spend time with you. So, you want to do this?” I wagged a hand between the two of us.

His eyes skittered away, and he huffed out a harsh laugh.

Mimicking my motion of wagging his hand between us, he retorted, “I’m not doing this with you. But while I’m not doing this with you, I won’t be seeing anyone else.” He paused. Swallowed. Met my eyes. “Or saying otherwise.”

I leaned toward him. “You are the most infuriatingly complicated man. I won’t see anyone else while I’m not seeing you either.”

My response wrested a tiny half-smile from his beautiful lips. I’d take that tiny victory.

I raised my fist. “Fist bump.”

His eyes widened. He held up his fist with a smirk and gently bopped mine. “Did you just ask to fist bump me? Do you even know how to date?”

“So, we are dating?” I teased.

“We’re seeing where it goes,” he grunted. His eyes smiled as he gathered up our empty cups. “Do you fist bump all your dates goodnight?”

I got to my feet. “Not at all.” I answered like it was the most natural conversation in the world. “Not all of them warranted a fist bump.” I paused. “We are just talking about fist bumps, right?”

He laughed.

Out loud.

The sound ignited a sparkler of wonder in my heart, and I stood staring up at him. Laughing. Joyfully.

And I lit up, forgetting in the face of his pure male beauty he’d just spilled his entire fucking tragic childhood in my lap.

To secure a date.

With me.

He shook his head and placed his hand at the small of my back as we headed toward the door. “Who else do you fist bump?”

I thought for a minute. “Just Lucky. Everyone else thinks it’s weird.”

“Huh,” he grunted. “Does he get the finger guns, too?”

“Nope!” I laughed, pulled them out, and shot him up. “Those are just for you.”

At the elevator, he lifted my hand to his mouth, brushed his lips across my knuckles, and smiled down at me. “Have a good day, Hope.” Without a backward glance, he walked out.

The warm feeling left from his kiss began to dissipate as his words from earlier came back to me. As soon as I got upstairs to my office, I closed myself behind my door, my heart broken for the little boy inside him who was still hurting.

It was not to be tolerated.

I spun in my chair and thought about our upcoming date as the warrior and the mother inside me prepared for battle.