Page 132 of Crash Course
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"So,"Cruz said when Randolph slammed the door. "That went well."
Cilla stood in front of her massive kitchen island, her face pale. Still staring at the door her father had just stormed through, she shook her head. When she opened her mouth, the only sound was a strangled scoff.
She faced him, her green eyes flat and blown out like she’d been hit with a bomb.
"I’m . . ." She pushed her palm up her forehead leaving a slight red mark. "I don’t know what I am."
"Has that ever happened before? A fight like that?"
"Um . . .no. I’ve witnessed it, but never directed at me."
Dang. He stepped closer, slid his arms around her and drew her close. "I’m sorry."
Snuggling into his neck, she nodded. "Me too. Thank you, though, for trying to intervene."
He backed up and gently gripped her forearms. "I promise you, I was attempting to stay out of it. When I heard him say bitch, I was cooked."
"He said that to me. Can you believe it? Who calls their own child a spoiled bitch?"
That one, he couldn’t speak to. His own father had been rough on him, telling him not to be a dummy when he put hands on people and got tossed out of school for a few days.
Back then, Cruz was too stubborn to let it bug him. Plus, in Dad’s defense, he hadn’t actually called him those names. It was more his twisted way of offering advice, warning him to not make choices that would land him in a cell one day.
As a grown man? Cruz wasn’t sure how he’d have handled his father speaking to him the way Cilla’s had. He replayed the exchange in his mind and his fingers curled into fists.Again. When he’d first heard it, he stood in that office, behind the closed door, blood pressure in the red, ready to throw hands. He may have been sweating.
No one would ever—ever—again talk to this amazing woman that way.
He’d make sure of it.
"You’ll never go through that again. I promise you that."
Being Cilla, she rolled her eyes. "Relax. It’s done now. I don’t need you playing hero. If you’d put a hand on him, he’d have had you arrested." She shook her head. "Wouldn’t that be fun?"
Ew. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, but yeah. Not good.
He dropped his arms to his sides and flexed his fingers—in, out, in, out—releasing some of the rotten energy. "Are you okay? I mean, relatively speaking?"
She moved to the island, rested her elbows on it and dipped her head to the surface, holding it against the cool marble.
"I don’t know what I’m doing," she said. "It’s like, the life I thought I had two weeks ago is gone."
"Hang on. That’s not true. You’re still you. You’ve got a successful law practice, you just bought real estate for a new office. Yeah, you’re making changes, but you’re still you."
"My father has been a huge part of my life. I see him nearly every day. Now? I don’t know if he’ll ever speak to me again."
"Cilla, no offense, if that’s how he interacts with you, you might be better off."
As soon as the words left him, he shut his mouth. About now would have been a great time to engage some sort of self-control. Something. Anything. Speaking of fathers, his own would smack him upside the head.
He held up a hand. "I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that."
Finally, she lifted her head. "Why? Because it’s the truth? Because it’s hard to hear?"
"It wasn’t . . . nice."
"Please, Cruz. Screw nice." She stood tall and gestured to the door. "I’ve spent the better part of myfuckinglife trying to please that man. Literally saving him from himself while keeping him happy. Do you know how exhausting that is? It never stops. Every day, every week, every month, walking the tightrope. And he just called me a spoiled bitch."
