Perfect Match Enemies to lovers romance - Leia Stone Page 0,27

steeled myself.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at me apprehensively. His shirt peeked up, showing a tiny slice of his tan stomach.

Why did he have to be good looking? Why couldn’t Colin’s heart have gone to an ugly asshole instead of a pretty one?

“You made quite the impression on my granny,” he hedged. “She’s having a big seventieth birthday party on her farm tomorrow night and wants me to invite you. I told her you were too busy and she said she was sending one of my cousins down here to make sure I asked you properly.”

My heart hammered in my chest. A birthday party for his grandma? That was some serious family shit, but part of me wanted to know where this guy came from. What his childhood was like. It might help me fix him.

“I’d love to.”

He sighed as if my acceptance caused him untold grief. “Can’t you just say no? It’s gonna be boring.”

I scowled at him. “My answer is yes, and I’ll tell your cousin that myself. I also don’t have a car, so I’ll need a ride.” I’d turned my rental car in this afternoon on my lunchbreak.

He glared at me. “You’re just the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t you?”

I threw one of the spare markers at his retreating back. “Without me you would starve!”

I’d fed that man three meals today and didn’t hear one complaint, so he could drive me to his granny’s farm and shut up about it.

“He got that charming personality from me,” a familiar voice spoke behind me and I jumped.

His dad. Alive and surprisingly looking well.

I clutched my chest. “You scared me.”

He leaned up against the brick wall, holding a drink with a paper bag wrapped around it. He looked clean, with gelled-back hair. Ashton had let him shower off at his apartment and then he went right back to drinking. He must have waited out here until just a few moments before closing. Ashton wouldn’t let him in otherwise, I suspected. His clothes were clean and looked familiar.

Ashton’s.

“I’m Millie.” I reached out and shook his hand.

“Wayne.” He pointed to the sign.

Ahh. Now it all made sense. Wayne’s Place.

“You feeling better?” I frowned, unsure how much he remembered.

He looked confused and then dawning recognition registered on his face. “I wasn’t always like this you know,” he informed me.

I started to clear up my markers, done with the sign. He seemed calm and chatty so I figured why not. “Oh yeah? What happened?”

I was raised Presbyterian, and when I was seventeen we went on a trip to San Francisco for two weeks. We worked with the homeless population there, feeding them, praying with them, hearing their stories. It completely healed me of my ‘fear’ of homeless people and all the taboo surrounding them. They were real people in shitty situations and most of them were so starved for conversation, they just wanted someone to talk to.

“My wife died. Ashton’s mom. Breast cancer just ate her up from the inside out.”

Oh God. My face fell, I hadn’t expected that answer, I’d been so shocked I actually dropped a few of my markers. The first I thought of was poor Ashton. He lost his mother, then in a way his father. Is that who he goes to grief counseling over? His mother? Is that why he needed a new heart? It was a silly thought; the heart didn’t actually break from sadness. Right?

Could this family’s story be any more tragic? I suddenly felt like an asshole for only losing one person I loved.

“I always liked drinking, but losing her all those years ago threw me over the edge,” he said, and took a long swig from his drink.

Years ago. So it couldn’t be the woman Ashton lost a year ago.

“I’m sorry.” My voice was small and I suddenly realized that my loss of Colin, although awful, was at least quick and painless. I didn’t think I would have been able to watch cancer eat away at him.

He put the bottle to his lips and gulped down a few more swallows. “Over fifteen years without her and I can still recognize the smell of her shampoo when I walk down the grocery aisle.”

Fuck. That was utterly sad and depressing. Why was Ashton letting his dad live on the street? Why not up in my spare apartment?

I decided to push my luck and ask, “How long have you been on the streets?”

He shrugged. “Four, maybe six months. Family tried to ‘intervention me,’