that,” I respond apologetically and brush my thigh against his, leaning closer to him even though I know the bar is hardly packed.
“I hate his dementia. Hate going to see him even if I love the man. He was more like a friend than a father. And now…”
“He doesn’t remember you?” The question tumbles out of me with pain and it’s relieved when he shakes his head and answers, “He remembers me. He knows who I am most of the time.
“It’s just … he asks about things that happened before. He forgets about my parents passing. He thinks I’m my father sometimes. And then others he remembers. It’s hard to tell what reality he’s in and what I’m going to get when I visit him.”
It’s quiet for a moment and I want to tell him I’m sorry again but it seems not good enough. They’re just words and I struggle to find something more than just an apology.
“He used to ask about cases. I liked that better.”
“Yeah, it’s easy to talk about work,” I’m quick to agree with him, nodding my head even and offering a gentle smile. “If you need to vent about anything, I’m always here.”
His mood shifts back to easy when he smiles and tells me, “I’m not leaving for a week, though.”
The way he raises his brow makes me huff a short laugh and say, “I guess I’ll just have to put up with you for a little while more then.”
As I joke with him, he brushes the back of his knuckles against mine and the heat unfolds inside of me.
There’s not a lot that makes me melt, but I swear he does.
“It’s easy to hide in work. Even easier to hide under the sheets and get lost, forgetting who we are and what we do,” Cody admits, speaking lowly, like it’s a secret.
“Why do we do this?” I don’t know why the question leaves me. It’s not with conscious consent. I suppose it’s the thought that neither of us likes to go home. We don’t like to talk about anything but work. Why do we put ourselves through this? Why do we prefer to meddle in lives that are long gone and stay buried there when there’s so much more to life than this?
Walsh’s gaze slips lower than it should, landing between my breasts as he questions, “Do what?” The edge of the bottle rests against his bottom lip for a moment too long, forcing me to pay too much attention to his expert lips.
“Do this job,” I answer firmly and holding an edge that doesn’t last. With my teeth sinking into my bottom lip, I return his hungry eyes with a heat in my own.
We should stop this conversation in public. I should stop leaning so close to him.
We’ve gotten too comfortable and even when I glance around the place, noting that no one’s watching and no one cares, I know damn well we shouldn’t be reckless. Especially after that article and the insinuation made. Even if I’ve nailed four trials in a row, I don’t need the judgment affecting my job.
“Why do we do what we do…” Cody’s intonation lowers, becoming more serious as he stares at my nearly empty glass of white.
“That’s what I was wondering?” My question doesn’t bring his gaze back; he’s lost in something reflected in the glass.
“I know I do this because of my brother.” Every muscle in my body tenses. Carefully, feigning a casualness that I’m all too aware is absent from this conversation, I pick up the glass and sip the white wine after commenting, “The one who passed?”
We spent over a year working together before anyone mentioned the fact that Cody Walsh had a brother. It’s one of the very few things I knew about him.
“Yeah, he’s the only brother I had. He was just a kid.”
“You were too, weren’t you?” I question, my memory betraying me. I’m almost certain his brother was seven or eight and Cody was only ten.
“Maybe I should stop. It’s been a long day and I’ve had too much.”
I shrug nonchalantly and say, “Whatever works for you. I do love getting to know you, though.”
I always knew Cody had demons. Something dark and twisted that kept him quiet and guarded whenever his personal information was in question.
The second his guard would start to crumble when I first met him, another would go up behind it, thicker and even more impenetrable. There’s not much about the man’s past that I know.