Page 57 of Crash Course
"Goosechase?"
He held up a hand. "My bad. Poor choice of words. We’re collecting samples and I’m not sure, once we have answers, what the outcome is supposed to be. If we find PFOA, what then?"
As if she knew? The idea that her father knew about the PFOA levels terrified her. She simply couldn’t imagine he’d hide it from residents and risk their health.
Cilla let out a soft sigh. "I wish I knew. And that’s as honest as I can be. The thought of my father knowing that property is toxic is killing me. Throw in him knowing that little girl has cancer and I’m not sure how to process that."
She sat back. "Happy now?"
"Nothing about what you said makes me happy. But at least I know what and why we’re doing this. You’re trying to figure out how much of an asshole your father is."
Cilla may have gawked. She wasn’t exactly sure. All she knew was Cruz said whatever came to mind. Somehow, it didn’t feel like a bad thing. At least she’d always know where she stood. No games. No testing her loyalty. No shenanigans.
"Oh, hey," he continued. "I’ve spent the last ten years trying to figure out how much of an assholemyfather was. Why he was constantly on me." He offered an all-teeth smile. "I call it self-reflection."
Intrigued by his admission, she propped her elbow on the table and tucked her chin into her hand. "What has your self-reflection garnered? Why do you think he was so hard on you?"
Something outside caught his attention and he pulled his gaze away, narrowing his eyes. Stalling? She didn’t know him well enough, yet, to understand his tells. No matter. She’d learned patience over the years. Questioning witnesses had taught her plenty.
Silently, she counted to ten. A little trick one of her professors had taught her about giving people time to think.
Seven, eight . . .
Cruz finally peered back at her, but sat silently, simply staring at her. Waiting for her to speak. Maybe change the subject. Little did he know, she’d sit here all day until he answered her. They’d see who gave in first.
Nine . . .
"Out of all of us, I was probably most like him." He pointed to his face. "I look like him. My eyes are his. I think when I look in the mirror, he didn’t want me to see him."
Holy cow.Cruz’s lack of filter definitely had an upside if he allowed himself to be that open.Wow, wow, wow.
"That," Cilla said, "might be the most profound thing anyone has ever said to me."
"Doubtful. But it is what it is. My dad wanted better for us. He was a repo guy who had bigger dreams for his sons."
"What dreams?"
"I’m not sure. I never got the chance to know him like that. Which, hello? That sucks. Part of it was probably some mash-up of BARS. I don’t think he could visualize that far out of his box, though. Taking BARS to this level with art recovery was Zeke’s doing. Before that, we were doing automotive and planes."
Cilla sat taller, releasing her chin from her hand. She reached across, touched his forearm and a zip of heat shot clear through her fingers. Enjoying that brief surge of . . . something . . . she made no rush to move.
His gaze dropped to her hand, then back up to her eyes and everything beyond their little table seemed to blur, to float away while they sat quietly lost in whatever was happening between them.
He set his free hand over hers and squeezed. "This is nice. Sitting here with you."
"I agree." She smiled. "If this keeps up, I may never leave. But who’s deflecting now? No changing the subject. Back to your dad. He’d be proud of what y’all have done, right? That he gave you the tools to build the company."
"He’d definitely be proud. Mom tells us that all the time."
"So, why wouldn’t he want you to see him when you look in a mirror?"
"I don’t know."
"Did you ask your mom?"
Now it was his turn to gawk. "Hellno.Notdoingthat."
Men. So complicated. He’d just revealed all this self-reflection, yet he wouldn’t ask his mother a simple question. "Why?"
