And not just because we have great sex or he likes the way I look on his arm. I won’t be another man’s project or trophy. Or whatever I am to him,” I tell her.
She quirks her lips in sympathy. “Oh, honey. You’re the only one who doesn’t see your worth …” she says and I rear back in surprise and hurt.
“What does that mean?” I eye her.
Her eyes soften, and her smile turns a little sad.
“It means if you did, you’d know that the only way anyone would look at you and see anything less than the amazing woman you are is if they’re an idiot. And Hayes Rivers isn’t an idiot. Yeah, he said something stupid to his brother. But he didn’t know you from Sam when he said it,” she reminds me, again.
I chafe at her defense of Hayes, of how right she is and how wrong she is. I rub a finger over the spot on my temple where a small headache is suddenly blooming.
“I would never ever insult him like that. I wouldn’t look at him and see anything less than the human being he is. Yes, he’s handsome. He’s got a hot body. He’s got pots of money and he’s got power. I didn’t look at him and wonder if he got rich by ripping people off or assume that because he’s a big guy those things about him and his ex were true. I wondered if he would be tender and caring, constant, proud, honorable, determined, and convicted and smart. Those things have nothing to do with his money.”
“You’re deluding yourself,” she says dismissively.
“How?” I chafe at the words.
“The wealth he was born into has shaped all of those things. Just like the poverty you were born into has shaped yours.” She puts her hands up, palms facing me when I start to speak. “Hear me out, please.”
“As if I could stop you,” I grumble.
“I get it. You were raised to be proud of who you are. Not what you have. He was raised to believe the exact opposite. All of that honor, pride, conviction? They all fuel the need to protect the things—his name, his money, his position,” she says.
“Yeah, but at what cost?”
“Whatever it takes, is what I’m sure he’d say,” she shrugs. “You’re such a hypocrite,” she says.
“Excuse me? Is it Thursday or is it Shit on Confidence Day?” I ask.
“Isn’t your whole career based on you wanting to preserve a way of life? What have you done to protect it? What wouldn’t you do?” she asks.
I cradle my forehead in my hands and try to process what she’s saying through a different filter.
“It’s amazing that he’s who you’ve fallen like this for. I always thought you’d need a man who would let you have your way. You’re so stubborn. But you’ve met your match in him. I’m glad he’s making you think. And I’m glad he’s strong. I think it’ll be good for you to not have to carry the whole world on your shoulders, TB,” she says.
She covers my hand with hers to silence me.
“It’s okay to be vulnerable,” she says quietly. “It’s okay to let him close enough to hurt you again. But you have to want him more than you want your pride, TB,” she says.
“My pride?” I bristle at her characterization. “It’s not pride. It’s self-preservation. I didn’t have anyone to stand between me and the bad guy. I have always stood in the breech myself. And I love him so much that if I let him, he could really ruin me.” My confession pours out of me and I feel breathless having said it.
“I know ... And I didn’t mean to dismiss that. You just can’t let fear lead you.”
“What if he doesn’t want me the same way? What if when he gets to see all of me, he finds me lacking?” I ask and reveal the real source of my anxiety.
“Ask him. Call him before you go.”
“And say what? Can you help understand how I keep ending up with men who want me in bed, but don’t think I’m fit to be on their arm in public?” I ask quietly. Tears of shame burn my eyes.
“First of all, he’s nothing like Nigel. He respects you and he’s crazy about you. It was so obvious when you were here even with all the madness that happened. And you should have seen him driving that truck, through all that water. He did that for you.”