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Chuckling, he said, “When I was growing up, my parents weren’t the ‘chase your dreams’ kind of people. They were the ‘get a good job and provide for your family’ kind of people. So, when I was looking for jobs, I looked for something that paid well, had decent hours at least most of the year, and was fairly secure. So it was pretty much between being an accountant or a mortician.”
“Death and taxes, huh?”
He shrugged. “And it’s really not that bad. I’ve been promoted several times in the last ten years, and I get to help entrepreneurs like you save money on their taxes. I meet lots of different people and learn something new all the time.”
I smiled, shaking my head.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m just trying to picture an eighteen-year-old Jonas planning how to support a family.”
“What were you doing at eighteen?” he asked. “Writing raunchy romance and smoking cigarettes?”
“You have half of it right,” I replied.
“The writing part?”
I shook my head and scooted sideways on the booth so I could stick my legs out and lean my back against the wall. “I was waiting tables and trying to keep myself off the streets.”
His dark eyebrows drew together, and when he did that, I couldn’t help but notice how much he looked like his dad. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Weren’t you busy with high school?”
“I couldn’t keep up with school when I ran away from home. My whole childhood was about survival, in one form or another.”
His brown eyes seemed to grow even darker, and I hated to admit it felt good that he cared enough to be even a little sad for me. People in my position were supposed to hate pity, but I could never find it in myself to push it away. Pity was the natural reaction—no one should have had to grow up the way I did. In a lot of ways, I pitied that ballsy, broken teenage girl just as much as I admired her for getting away.
“How did you learn how to write then?” he asked. “Did you go back to college?”
I laughed. “College? I didn’t even get my GED. I learned how to write by being really crappy at it and scrounging together tips to hire editors who could fix it.”
“That’s amazing,” he said. “Really.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a small smile. “It almost seems like a different life looking back on it now.”
The waitress came back with our food, and I was way too hungry to keep talking. I pulled the milkshake toward me and started eating it with my French fries. And when I looked up, I saw Jonas doing the same thing.
“You’re eating your dessert first?” I asked, half stunned, half impressed. “I thought that went against your code of ethics.”
He gave me an exasperated smile. “Someone told me it all goes to the same place.”
Laughing, I picked up the silver milkshake tin and held it out. “To eating dessert first.”
Meeting my eyes, he lifted his cup too. “And to strong girls who become daring women.”
If my heart didn’t melt right along with the ice cream. “Cheers.”
* * *
I toldJonas I could drive to my house, but he said it didn’t count for Bertha if they didn’t cross home plate with him behind the wheel. I rolled my eyes and let him drive.
It was nice actually, being able to relax while someone else took care of the road. I checked my phone for new messages. Birdie nor Hen had replied to my text, so it was safe to assume they both were asleep. Charlotte had texted me, though, and said the media was going wild about my dad’s appearance at the press conference and the way Jonas had stepped in for me.
No matter how shitty it felt to see that man again, he’d helped me in a big way by making me sympathetic to the public. But it did feel shitty. My heart was racing with old anxiety knowing I would be alone tonight. Any other night, I would have stayed with Birdie or gone to the bar to find a warm body to keep me safe overnight.
I didn’t have that option. Birdie was married, and I was still skating on thin ice with the studio.
So, I held my head high and walked to my front door like I wasn’t completely fucking panicked at the idea that my home address was just a google search away for someone like my dad. Maybe I’d just pack a bag and book a hotel for a while...
Jonas walked me to the door, and just like the night before, I turned on my doorstep to tell him goodnight. Was it bad that part of me wanted to “practice” kissing him some more... see if we could practice something else to draw my mind away from this building sense of panic?