Page 42 of Black Sheep
I can’t help but grin at her response. “I knew there was something special about you.”
I turn back to fill antique cut-crystal glasses with three fingers of bourbon each and carry them to the counter of the kitchen bar. I offer one to her, and she wraps her palm around it.
“To an unexpected night,” I say, lifting my glass in salute.
She does the same, tapping the heavy base against mine. “To a very unexpected night.”
We both sip the smooth, mellow bourbon. The spice washes over my tongue, followed by a hint of pear and apple.
Drew lowers her glass from her lips with an appreciative sigh. “God, that’s always so good. No wonder my dad refused to drink anything else.” As soon as she makes the comment, her entire body freezes, like she didn’t mean to say it.
She mentioned my laugh reminded her of someone at dinner, and I’m willing to bet this entire building on the fact that it was her dad. The dad she lost.
“What was he like?”
I ask the question, and Drew shrinks into herself for a few beats before lifting the glass to take another long drink. When she finally finds the courage to meet my gaze again, her eyes glisten.
“He was a good man.” She swallows like there’s a lump caught in her throat from her husky words. “A really good man.”
“I take it he passed?”
She nods solemnly. “Too soon. Much too soon.”
“I’m sorry, Drew. The good ones always go too soon.”
She blinks a few times and looks up, like she’s trying to stop the tears from falling. Again, I see that flicker of color beneath what I’m now certain is a colored contact lens.
But if I ask her about them right now, that would make me a huge dick. So instead, with my glass in hand, I cross back to the liquor cabinet and grab the bottle. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Quietly, Drew follows me through the loft from the kitchen and living room area into my private domain—my office.
Inside, the two towering front and back walls are covered completely by bookshelves stacked with classics and first editions I’ve picked up individually or bought in bulk online. I bypass those to stop in front of the antique shuffleboard lane mounted next to the wall of windows that start at waist height and span upward about ten feet.
“Want to play?” I ask, but she’s too busy taking in the rest of the room to focus on the game.
“This is incredible.”
Her gaze sweeps over my desk, from the same old factory as the liquor cabinet, to the massive wingback chair in the corner with an Edison bulb pendant shining down on the spot where I try to carve out time to read every day. It was a habit Dom started me on when he handed meThe Art of Warwhen I was twelve and told me to memorize it, which is probably the only reason I’ve lived as long as I have.
“This is the inner sanctum. No one else comes here. Ever.”
She finally turns to the industrial farmhouse-style shuffleboard table, her eyes wide. “Then who do you play against?”
“Myself. Unless you’re willing to give me a real competitor.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to say no, and I’m coming up with arguments to change her mind. But instead of shaking her head, she kicks off her heels and crosses the wood floor barefoot.
“I don’t know about being a real competitor, but I’ll at least save you from playing like you’re an only child. Lord knows that sucked as a kid for me fairly often.” She lifts her dark eyes to mine. “What about for you?”
It’s the first time she’s asked me about my childhood, a subject people avoid like the bubonic plague if they know who my father is. Since I haven’t outright admitted it to Drew yet, I decide it’s time.
I set my bourbon on the windowsill and stare out at the buildings across the street. “My mother tried to make things as normal as she could, but it was hard when she was constantly trying to regain Dom’s attention and affection for herself. She basically chased him away a few years after I was born. In case you haven’t put it together, Dom is my father.”
As soon as the words are out, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I never admit who Dom truly is to me, either verbally, in writing, or otherwise.
Thankfully, Drew doesn’t gasp in shock, something I probably have Randi to thank for, because I can’t imagine she wouldn’t fill Drew in on that piece of information.
“It sounds like he didn’t need to be chased away, because he’s an old tomcat, too busy trotting from alley to alley to remember who he left behind,” she says, and I turn to catch her shrug with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
