by Penny Reid
I stared at him, no longer astonished or dismayed by his knowledge of my past, but rather suddenly irritated by it. Looking at Dan through a filter of suspicion—now that it was clear he’d had me investigated well before I’d asked him to marry me last Wednesday—gave my mind focus.
After a moment, he met my gaze. While we traded stares, his eyebrows lifted by millimeters, as though reading my thoughts and surprised by their direction.
“Your last name isn’t Tanner,” he said finally, his tone flat, and he released my hand.
“What else do you know about me?” I crossed my arms.
“You’re the heiress to the Caravel Pharmaceuticals fortune. Your mother is Rebekah Caravel-Tyson, the famous painter and even more famous heiress, and your father is Zachariah Tyson, scientist and—with your mother’s illness—now the majority stakeholder in Caravel Pharmaceuticals. Your cousin, Caleb Tyson, is the CEO.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Dan shrugged. The movement was seasoned with the barest hint of embarrassment, but mostly pragmatism. “When Quinn started things up with Janie, the team prepared dossiers on all her friends.”
“So you’ve known about me since Janie and Quinn started dating?”
“Yep.”
I would not allow myself to think about the ramifications of this revelation until I was alone with my thoughts. And yes—you guessed it—cheese. Probably a sharp cheddar. Or maybe a brie.
But he wasn’t finished. “I also know that Elizabeth’s first boyfriend died of cancer, what kind of dog Sandra had growing up, that Ashley only entered those beauty contests in Tennessee in order to get a scholarship to college, that Fiona almost made it to the Olympics before she got that brain tumor, and that Marie’s brother is a musician in New York.”
This was information I knew as well, except the difference was he’d read about these experiences, whereas my friends had confided in me willingly.
Dan leaned back in his seat. “Listen, I can see this upsets you, and I don’t blame you. But what’s done is done. Cypher Systems was at a critical point when Janie and Quinn hooked up, and he wanted to make sure none of you were a liability.”
“So you know all about me?”
“Not all about you.”
“Really. What don’t you know?”
“Let’s see . . .” He twisted his mouth to the side and peered at me thoughtfully. “What’d you have for breakfast this morning?”
“Two hard-boiled eggs.”
“So, the usual?”
My mouth dropped open, and I was sure dismay was painted all over my features, but Dan could only keep his face straight for approximately five seconds before he cracked a smile and started to laugh.
“Relax. I’m kidding. I have no idea what you eat for breakfast. It wasn’t like that. We weren’t spying. We just wanted to make sure none of you had any connections that might jeopardize or complicate Cypher Systems’s migration to corporate security. So, no. I don’t know everything about you.” He added under his breath something that sounded like, “Far from it.”
His clarification didn’t make me feel much better, because the fact was he had—or Quinn and Alex and their team had—investigated us. Dan did know a lot about me. I was at a huge disadvantage; in comparison, I knew very little about him.
“You know I left home at fifteen?” I lifted my chin, bracing myself for his answer.
He didn’t respond right away, instead he leaned forward and pushed his straw into his drink. “Yes.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.” He sighed, shaking his head, looking irritated. “But I can guess.”
“Please.” I gestured for him to continue, then re-crossed my arms.
His attention settled on my crossed arms and his frustration seemed to intensify. “Your mom. She has schizophrenia, right? The bad kind?”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t show any emotion. “That’s right.”
“And your dad, he shipped you off to boarding school at five? He was a real workaholic type, right?”
“Yes.”
“My guess is, you didn’t like the school, and you never saw your dad, and your mom wasn’t around, so . . .” His shoulders moved up and down once as he sipped his drink.
“So?”
“So you had nothing to stay for. No family to consider, or to guide you, or to protect you. As a kid, you needed to be protected. And if you didn’t get on well at school, you had no reason to stay there either. You were young. You didn’t like where you were, so you left.”
I didn’t confirm or deny his guess, mostly because his conclusion was definitely part of the reason I’d run away.
“I get it. I mean, I remember being a teenager and not understanding that I wasn’t invincible. I was so eager to get out there and prove myself, how much of a big man I was, how much of an adult, that I made dumbass choices. I didn’t understand that the big adult choices come with big adult consequences.”
Big adult consequences.
This piqued my interest. “Specifically?”
“I joined my brother’s gang when I was fourteen,”—he scratched his neck, not quite meeting my eyes—“and did some very, very bad stuff.”
I considered him, what he’d said, what he didn’t say. “Bad stuff?”
“Yeah.”
Inexplicably, I found myself relaxing. “Like what?”
Dan gave me a close-lipped smile. His eyes seemed to dance with amusement while erecting a barricade at the same time. “You don’t want to know.”
“I think I do. We might get married tomorrow, right?”
“Not ‘might.’” He gave his head a subtle shake, his eyes locked with mine. “We are getting married tomorrow. In fact, according to Cook County, we’re already married.”
“You know all about me—”
“I don’t. I really don’t.”
“You know the nature of the unwise decisions I made, right? The drugs?”
His eyebrows ticked up, but I wasn’t finished.
“How I lived on the streets? The stealing?”
“No, actually.” Dan placed an elbow on the table, his hand rubbing his chin as he considered me. “I don’t know about that.”
Startled, I sat straighter in my seat. “You don’t?”
“The files don’t go into that much detail. If you weren’t arrested for it, I don’t know about it.”
“But I was arrested.”
“You’ve been arrested?” He made no attempt to hide his shock.
“Yes. For theft.”
Dan sputtered, seemed to struggle to find words, and eventually asked, “What did you steal?”
“All sorts of things, always from a supermarket or a convenience store. Food mostly.”
“This was when you were a runaway?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He was looking at me like I was something new and peculiar. “So they tracked you down?”
“No. A few months before my eighteenth birthday, I went to the police and turned myself in.”
He reared back. “Get out.”
“I did.” I nodded firmly. “I made a list of all the stores and items I could remember stealing from and turned myself in.”
“Fucking nerves of steel on you.” He cracked a smile, now looking at me like I was something new and amazing, but still peculiar. “What happened?”
Remembering the first twenty-four hours after I’d turned myself in, the event that stood out the most was Eugene showing up, looking not just grim, but also furious. “Eugene was very angry.”
“This is your dad’s lawyer? I’ll bet.”
“Especially since I’d refused his help in favor of a public defender.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” I repeated, smiling a little at my use of the cuss word. “But all I felt was relief. I served my time in the detention center. I completed my community service and was accepted to a work-release program. I paid restitution to the stores from my earn
ings. It took me three years, but I did it.”
“You were in a detention center?” He scratched his chin, examining me. “Those places can be rough.”
“It was scary,”—I shrugged—“but no more so than living on the streets.”
“Was that story in the papers? I don’t remember hearing about it.”
“No, actually. By some miracle, the media never picked up on the story.” I suspected that had been Eugene’s doing, to spare my father any embarrassment.
Dan exhaled a disbelieving sigh, shaking his head. “This is unbelievable,” he said. But I wasn’t really listening to him.
I was lost to my recollections, and so I spoke without thinking, “Turning myself in was the best thing I’ve ever done. I was off the streets, off drugs, and my caseworker helped me figure out how to get my GED. Since I’d voluntarily confessed, and turned myself in prior to my eighteenth birthday, my records are sealed. It changed my life.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“It is unbelievable. I got lucky, so lucky, I know I did. Some kids don’t get a second chance even if they want one. But the experience did teach me the importance of always doing the right thing—especially when it’s scary—because the alternative is living in constant fear and shame.”
I fingered my phone, knowing now was the right time to show him my list. And yet I hesitated. Once he knew, he would always know. There was no taking this back.
Dan reached over and moved my hair behind my shoulder, drawing my attention back to him. “You’re different.”
“Different? Than what?”
“Different than what I thought you were like.”
My stomach wanted to drop, but this time I wouldn’t let it. So what if who I was, what I’d done, disappointed him? There was nothing I could do about that now, and I certainly didn’t have time to cry about it given my present circumstances.
I lifted my chin as ice entered my words. “Really? And how am I different?”
“You’re tough.”
I suppressed my wince, but just barely.
I wasn’t sure if he meant tough as a compliment or as an insult. If you called a man tough, it was automatically considered a positive attribute. Guys were supposed to be tough. But if a woman was called tough—or hard, or experienced—it wasn’t necessarily praise. My therapist and I had discussed this double standard at length, especially as it related to my own issues with self-worth.
We wanted guys to be tough, strong, capable, and decisive, hardened by experience.
We wanted women to be soft, vulnerable, retiring, and gentle, shielded from hardship.
I resisted the concept of being retiring, especially over the last two years as I worked to learn my place at Caravel. How was I supposed to assume the role of majority shareholder while also wearing a mantel of timidity? It was impossible to be both.
I couldn’t afford gentleness, not with Caleb’s scheming. And, other than Uncle Eugene, no one in my life had ever attempted to shield me from hardship. Except maybe my mother, and then only from her hallucinations.
My therapist had said these expectations, these ideals—for both men and women—were at odds with what was healthy and demanded by reality.
Yet still, I struggled. I didn’t like being vulnerable. At all. I’d been vulnerable when I was a kid and clearly that had not worked out for me.
“You don’t like being called tough?” he guessed, lifting an eyebrow at me.
I glanced over his head to the window behind him. “It depends on how you mean it.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
I looked at him, found his mouth curved with a whisper of a smile.
“You expected me to be weak?”
“No. I just didn’t expect you to be this tough.” He took another sip of his drink, watching me over the rim, then replacing it to the table. “But I guess maybe you’ve had to be tough.”
“So then it’s allowed?” I challenged, not quite understanding why his statement irritated me so much. “If a woman has to be tough, because of circumstances beyond her control, then it’s allowed? Otherwise—”
“Whoa.” He held his hands up, his eyes alert. “You can be anything you want or need to be. And don’t assume this is me acting like I’m giving you permission, or like you need someone’s permission to be what you are. I don’t think you need my permission or anyone else’s. No one does. But since you specifically asked, this is just me making some statements that are obvious—at least, they’re obvious to me. Okay? You do you. You’re tough, for whatever reason, and that’s great.”
I couldn’t help it, his response—which I found surprising and wonderful—fractured my composure and made me smile.
And I was admitting before I could catch myself, “You’re also different than I expected.”
“Oh really? How so? And if you call me a mansplainer, I promise I won’t say another word for the rest of our marriage.”
That made me laugh. “No. You’re not a mansplainer. And for the record, I hate that word.”
He seemed surprised by this. “Why do you hate that word? I think it’s hilarious.”
“Hate might be too strong. I guess I don’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Because men aren’t the only ones who do it.” I was specifically thinking about two women on the board at Caravel who seemed to consider me an idiot because I was young, and I’d been born into my position rather than earning my seat at the table. Their hostility only made me want to prove myself more.
Dan gave me a look, like he didn’t follow my logic.
“It should be dumbsplain, because women do it too.”
“Yeah but—at the risk of being a mansplainer—may I suggest you think of it this way.” He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in his seat, his tone adopting an instructional air. “We use human and mankind all the time to mean everyone, right?”
“Right . . .”
“So, why can’t mansplain also apply to everyone? Also, for the record, most of the guys I know who get upset at the word ‘mansplain’ also call each other—and pardon my profanity—pussies all the time. So that’s a dumb fucking double standard if you ask me.”
I laughed, unable to stop myself, especially since he’d asked to be pardoned for using the word “pussies” but didn’t seem to realize he’d just dropped an F-bomb.
He eyeballed me, looking a little confused by my laughter, like he wasn’t sure if I was laughing at him. “So, how am I different than you expected? Am I taller?”
Still smiling, I allowed my gaze to examine his handsome face. “You’re self-aware. In unexpected ways.”
“I suppose you mean I have a sensitive side.” Now he smirked, looking a little smug. He was really cute when he looked smug.
Once again, I was reminded of how exceptionally talented Dan was at distracting me and making me not care that I was distracted; or letting my guard down; or saying, doing, and feeling things I wouldn’t typically allow myself to say or do or feel.
Like right now. I was staring at him and it wasn’t through my filter of aloofness and control. He was also staring at me. My stomach colluded with my heart to switch places because—if my brain could be trusted—it looked like he was giving me the sexy eyes.
The sexy eyes.
The ones he’d been withholding since Vegas.
I melted. And I probably would have done something extraordinarily embarrassing—like tell him how much I liked him—except we were fortuitously interrupted by the arrival of sandwiches.
“Turkey, grilled cheese, and cheese steak.” The restaurant worker plopped the trays down in front of us, not caring whose sandwich was whose, and effectively broke the sexy-eyes spell.
Also, my phone chose that moment to buzz where I’d left it on the table. We both glanced at the screen and I snatched it up as soon as I read the message.
Eugene: Did he sign the postnup?
Dan peered at me, lifting his drink to bite on his straw. �
��Eugene again?”
I nodded, dismissing his text. It was exactly the reminder I needed, the bucket of ice water required to put this conversation back on track.
Navigating to my notes app, I offered my phone to Dan. “I need to show you something.”
His gaze flickered between the phone and me, but he didn’t take it. “What’s that?”
“I made a list of all the things I’ve done, all the things you need to know about me. I didn’t—I don’t—want you marrying me before you understand the extent of my—”
“You mean it’s like a list of bad stuff?”
“That’s right.”
His gaze morphed into a glower and he leaned away. “I don’t want to see the list. I don’t need to see a list of all the things you think you’ve done wrong in your life.”
“But I want you to make an informed decision. Before you agree to marry me—”
“Like I said, it’s too late. I’ve already agreed.” He held his hands up, palms out. “No list is going to change my mind about that.”
“But—”
“Do you want me to make a list of all the bad shit I’ve done?” He lowered his voice, looking suddenly angry and scowling at my phone like it had just attacked his dog. “Because I guarantee you, it’s going to be longer than your list.”
“No. I would never ask you for that.” I brought the phone to my chest, hiding the screen that seemed to offend him so much. “You’re the one helping me, not the other way around. I owe you everything, and you owe me nothing.”
He shook his head, pushing his food away and crossing his arms. Inexplicably, my words seemed to have made him furious, and he appeared to be dangerously close to losing his temper.
“You have got to stop fucking thanking me.” He pronounced each word slowly, meticulously.
“I don’t know how to do that. You’re saving my—”
“Listen,” he ground out, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath before continuing. “The truth of the matter is, maybe we don’t know each other all that well.” He opened his eyes and his gaze hijacked mine with its intensity. “But we’ve known each other for several years. And in that time, I’ve never seen you do anything that would make me hesitate helping you now, okay? And obviously, there’s nothing I’ve done over the last several years that had you hesitating asking me for help either.”