“Okay,” I said softly.
“And I cannot f**kin’ believe, after I took care of you when you were sick, after this week, after today, after tonight, you’d f**kin’ think that of me.”
Even in the face of his obvious anger, I felt steel sheath my spine and I told him, “You don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me.”
“It always starts good.”
“Yeah?”
“Then it goes bad.”
“And?”
“Sometimes very bad.”
“You think I’m gonna cheat on you, lie to you, beat you?”
“I don’t know.”
That shadow darkened and his eyes again narrowed just as his arms grew tight.
“You don’t know?” he asked.
“I didn’t know with them either.”
“Jesus, Nina, I give you any indication I’d f**kin’ do that to you, to anyone?”
Actually, he hadn’t.
Of course, there was the small matter of his dead wife that he still hadn’t shared with me. Along with a lot of his life. Whereas I’d shared a good deal of mine. Or it had walked in his front door, spilled out in phone conversations he was privy to or came out when I was in a snit.
To explain this concept, I told him, “I don’t even know how old you are.”
“Yeah, that’s because you haven’t f**kin’ asked. I don’t know how old you are either but I’ve actually f**kin’ asked.”
Unfortunately, I had to admit, he had me there.
“What’s your point?” he asked when I fell silent.
“Sorry?”
“What’s my age got to do with it?”
“I’m just pointing out we barely know each other and, further, you’re not exactly forthcoming.”
“Not hidin’ anything, Duchess, unlike you who’s secretive as hell and when you aren’t, you’re guarded.”
I felt my own eyes narrow and I snapped, “I am not,” even though I knew I kind of was.
“Yeah, how old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” I replied immediately and his face suddenly cleared.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m thirty-six years old.”