Page 43 of The Last Goodbye

He exhaled. “I’ve always been better with food than words. So this is my apology.”

It was honest and vulnerable, and I appreciated it.

“Thank you. Normally I’d like to hear the words, but I’ll take a meal from you over words any day.”

His gaze softened, and he nodded. “I think I’ve been like this for most of my life. I guess I tend to expect the worst from people, and I keep my guard up because of it.”

“I get that. Believe it or not, we’re probably a lot more alike than you’d expect.”

“Is that so?” His dark blue eyes found mine. “You keep saying I know nothing about you. So tell me something that I don’t know about you.”

“I don’t think this juice is going to be strong enough for that conversation.” I chuckled, expecting him to drop the subject.

He went behind the bar before returning with a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. He popped the cork and poured it into our half-filled glasses of juice.

“Well then, this should make it easier.” He smirked as he set the bottle beside the carafe of orange juice.

I chuckled, but his face was serious. “Am I supposed to believe that you’re suddenly interested in my motives for helping you?”

Eyes intense, jaw chiseled, nose perfectly sculpted.

Ridiculously handsome.

“Yes. You said I misjudged you, and I think you’re right about that. Tell me something I don’t know so we can put it to rest.”

I took a sip of the mimosa before setting my glass down. “Why should I go first? You should have to tell me something that I don’t know about you first. This is your apology tour, right?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. He just held my gaze. The restaurant was completely quiet, as it wasn’t open for business yet.

There were no voices, no movement, just the soft, constant hum of the bar refrigerator behind the counter filling the space between us. The kind of silence that felt heavier because there was nothing to interrupt it.

Bass didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at me like he was weighing something in real time…whether to keep this light, or actually say something he usually wouldn’t.

And for once, he didn’t seem in any rush to decide.

Then he huffed a small laugh through his nose, more breath than humor, as he shook his head once.

“All right,” he said, a little slower than before. “I had a fairly fucked-up childhood.” That alone shifted the air between us. “My father left shortly after I was born. My mother is a mess”—he paused briefly, jaw tightening—“and I’m talking the worst kind of mess. I was forced to be the grown-up at a very young age.” Another small pause, shorter this time, like he was testing how far he wanted to go.

“So I don’t trust easily,” he added, voice lower now. “I tend to think people have ulterior motives. It’s not an excuse, it’s just…my reality.”

I sighed. His words were unexpected. “We have some similarities.”

“Your father was on the Forbes list. I was raised in a trailer and took custody of my sister when she was just a teenager. How do we possibly have similarities?” he pressed.

I reached for my glass again, and he did the same. After we’d both finished our mimosas, he refilled our glasses as I thought about how I wanted to answer him.

He’d shared something very personal, which I appreciated. I’d never been someone who felt the need to hide who I was, but I also didn’t feel the need to overshare.

“I didn’t meet my father until I was twenty years old.” I cleared my throat. “He had an affair with my mother, and the details that follow are a bit confusing, since they both have different versions. He claims that he was never told about me, while my mother always insisted that she found out that he was a married man and she ended things, only to learn that she was pregnant shortly after. She said she reached out to him to let him know she was pregnant with his child, but he wanted nothing to do with me or her.” I sighed deeply. “It’s quite the lovely story.”

He narrowed his gaze as he downed another mimosa, and I reached for mine.

“Who do you think is telling the truth?”

“My mother was a brutally honest person, so I can’t imagine she would lie about something so big. My father, on the other hand? I have no idea if he’s an honest man, because I don’t know him well enough to speak to that.” He was adamant that he hadn’t known about me, and he appeared devastated the first time he’d met me.

“Have you pushed the topic with your mother? Have you told her that he claims he didn’t know about you?” He was looking at me as if he genuinely wanted to know. He appeared both interested and concerned at the same time.