Angel of Redemption (44 page)

“
You
’
re dating a felon and you want me to be okay with that?
”

“
No! God, Dad. Chill out for a minute. He
’
s not a felon.
”

“
He
’
s not a felon?
”
He looks at me pointedly.
“
Those marks on his knuckles tell me
otherwise.
”

I
know my dad is just going to look him up the second we leave, but it
’
s not my place to tell him Dean
’
s story.

“
He
’
s
Dean Wyatt of The Wyatt House Group Home. They take on some of the most
difficult cases in DHS. Yes, he
’
s been in trouble. Yes, he
’
s got tattoos. But Jesus, Dad, give it
a break. Can
’
t you trust me? Please?
”
I plead. I
’
ve never actually brought a guy home
to meet my dad before and, while this isn
’
t exactly how I
’
d
imagined doing it, I want it go well.
“
And
we
’
re
not dating,
”
I add quietly.

My
dad shakes his head and sighs.
“
I just want to know you
’
re being safe, Kayla. I worry about
you.
”
He draws me into a hug. I know he feels guilty for not fighting for me when I
was younger. When I graduated from college, I decided it was time to confront
him so I could move past it. Andy sat with me as I told my dad about my
overdose and the struggle of never really knowing where I belonged. I think he
went through the five stages of grief in about two minutes, but overall, he was
devastated.

“
Trust me, Dad. I
’
m more than safe with Dean. Those tats you
’
re so worried about scare the jackasses
away.
”

“
What was he in jail for? I
’
m not asking for his Social Security
number, but I
’
d
like to know.
”
I can tell he
’
s
not going to let it go.

“
Oh my God. You and Andy are absolutely driving me insane.
Fine
—
he went in on drug charges. And before
you start freaking out, he wasn
’
t doing them, and he wasn
’
t selling them. He was a kid who got
mixed up with the wrong people. They wouldn
’
t
let him run Wyatt House if they thought he was a risk
…
and I wouldn
’
t have brought him here, either.
”

My
dad stares at me, his lips pressed into a fine line. Finally, he lets out a
breath.

“
All right. Fine. I
’
m gonna trust your judgment on this one,
”
he acquiesces.

“
I appreciate that.
”

He
helps me rinse off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher before we rejoin
everyone else. Dean watches me as I reenter the room. I wink at him to let him
know everything
’
s
okay, eliciting a smile.

The
rest of the night, my dad seems much more relaxed. He even engages Dean in
conversation about Wyatt House. After a dessert of chocolate ganache brownies
and coffee, it
’
s
time to leave. Karen takes Dean to the kitchen to make him a plate of leftover
brisket while I grab our coats.

“
I
’
m, uh, probably not gonna be home tonight,
”
Andy mumbles.

I
make a face at him.
“
If you
’
re going to be spending a lot of time away, maybe we need a
dog.
”

“
Do you want me to come home?
”

“
No,
”
I laugh.
“
Go be with your woman. Dean can keep me company.
”
I waggle my eyebrows at my scowling
brother.

“
Leave her alone, Andy,
”
Sara scolds, coming up behind us.
“
I
’
ll see you on Monday?
”
She kisses my cheek.

“
I might come home,
”
Andy calls as they walk out, making me giggle. Dean
appears seconds later, a full plate in his hands.

“
That
’
s a huge piece of meat you have there, Dean.
”
I smirk as he glances down and then
back up.

“
You
’
re pushing your luck with that dirty mouth, sweetheart,
”
he warns.

“
Oh, yeah? Why?
”
I test.
“
Watcha gonna do?
”

And
there it is
—
the conflict in his eyes. I saw it the
night I kissed him at his place. But seeing it again, I can tell he
’
s fighting against me. I
’
m
not sure why, but I need to figure out how to encourage him without making
myself look like a completely desperate fool. The look disappears when my
father and Karen appear to say their good-byes.

Dean
and I don
’
t talk on the way home, but it isn
’
t tense. He has music playing
—
i
t
’
s soft and kind of erotic. I
’
m not sure if that was his intention or if I
’
m just interpreting it that way, but it charges the air
between us.

When
we get to my house, Dean turns off the engine and climbs out of the car.
Normally, I would just hop out. Instead, I wait for him to come around and open
my door. It
’
s
old-fashioned, but I kind of love that he does it. He walks me to the door, his
hand resting on my lower back.

“
Do you want to come inside?
”
I ask, unlocking the front door and
pushing it open.

Dean closes his eyes and laughs.

“What?”

“
Nothing. I
’
d love to.
”

He
follows me in, taking off his coat and setting it over mine on the back of a
chair.

“
Uh, do you mind if I take this off?
”
he asks, fiddling with the buttons of
his button-down.
“
I
’
ve got a T-shirt underneath.
”

I nod.

“Yes, you mind?” He smiles and lifts his eyebrows.

“
No! I don
’
t mind. Yes, you can take it off.
”

I
watch his fingers nimbly worki the buttons through the little holes. I
’
m glued to the spot, mesmerized by
what he
’
s
doing. His chest pushes forward as he pulls the long-sleeved shirt from his
arms, revealing a simple, white cotton tee. His tats are on display.
Apparently, he
’
s
not ashamed or afraid to show me now. He scratches roughly at them.

“
My skin still gets agitated when it rubs against rougher
fabrics,
”
he explains.

I
swallow thickly and walk into the kitchen.
“
Can I get you something to drink?
”
I ask to distract myself from the
ridges of his muscles that are just barely noticeable through the shirt.

“
Water
’
s fine. I still have to drive.
”

My
heart sinks a little, and I shove my thumbnail into my mouth. He intends to go
home. I don
’
t
know what I expected. I don
’
t even know what I hoped. But he just got here, and I don
’
t want to think about him leaving.

When I look up, he’s suddenly in front of me. His
fingers tug softly at my thumb.

“
Why do you do that?
”
he asks, his voice low.

“
Do what?
”

“
Bite your nail like that?
”

I
shrug.
“
Nervous habit.
”

“
Am I making you nervous?
”
He smiles lightly.

“
A little,
”
I admit. His smile fades, and he lowers his hand. He
’
s about to take a step back, but I
grab onto his shirt.
“
Not in a bad way.
”

His
eyes dart down to my mouth, and he licks his lips. There
’
s no doubt, when he leans forward,
what he
’
s
about to do. My heart speeds up, and my mind begins racing. Is he really going
to do this? What does it mean? I
’
ve thought about this for such a long
time
—
fantasized
about him kissing me. But he was so adamant about us remaining friends. Why
now? His lips meet mine slowly, and suddenly my thoughts are completely silent.
His hand slides around the back of my neck, holding me in place as he puts more
pressure against my mouth
—
as if I would ever move.

Our
mouths slide against each other. His grip tightens on my neck, his nose
pressing against mine. It feels like he
’
s holding back, but I have no idea how to tell him that he
doesn
’
t
have to. He
’
s
being very careful, and I
’
m afraid that if I
’
m too enthusiastic, he
’
ll pull away.

I
inch my tongue forward, swiping it across his lower lip. His mouth opens just
enough for me to feel the tip of his tongue meet mine. It
’
s not aggressive or demanding or any
of the other things I expected from a guy like Dean. It
’
s cautious and hesitant.

The
hand that
’
s
still gripping his T-shirt pulls him closer, and I put my other one on his hip
in an attempt to tell him this is what I want
—
what
I
’
ve wanted for awhile. His breath
stutters. And just like that, he pulls away. When I open my eyes, I want to
cry. His remain closed, but the expression on his face is anguished.

“
Dean?
”
I whisper, my voice betraying my emotion.
“
I
’
m sorry.
”

I
don
’
t
know what I
’
m
apologizing for exactly. He
’
s the one who initiated the kiss. But
I
’
m afraid he
’
s going to start pulling back again. The last several weeks
have been amazing and fun. I adore him, and if it pains him to have our
relationship become physical, then it won
’
t. I
’
ll take whatever I can get.

His
eyelashes flutter for a second before his eyes open.
“
I can
’
t do this,
”
he chokes.

“
It
’
s okay,
”
I reassure.
“
We don
’
t have to. I thought
…
I just
…
”
I huff in frustration. I
’
m agitated that I let this happen. We
were in such a good place.

Dean
shakes his head.
“
Kayla,
it isn
’
t
you.
”

Great.
I
’
m getting the
“
it
’
s-not-you-it
’
s-me
”
talk. I turn to grab glasses out of
the cabinet and fill them with water.