Page 70

Story: Dead Rinker

“Are they mean to you, Princess?”

And there it is.

My head screams at me to slam the door shut in his face, to deflect this conversation.

Where is the waiter? Aren’t they ready to serve us our next course or something? I look around the room.

“Kate.” Jensen reins me in softly with his voice.

“What?” I whisper.

“I’m going to need you to tell me baby. Are they mean to you?”

I need out of this hot as fuck restaurant.

Reaching across the table, he takes my hand in his and interlaces our fingers. Stroking his calloused thumb softly against my skin, the calming sensation is grounding.

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, my heart rate returning to something like normal. “Not in the classic sense.”

I swear to God, I hear him growl above the ambient music playing in the background. “Classic sense?”

“Do we have to talk about them?” I try once more to deflect.

He nods slowly. “They’re grandparents to my babies and mean to my girl. So yeah, I say we do.” I can hear the way he fights back the anger and works to keep his tone soft. Jensen Jones is all kinds of caveman.

To think I once thought he didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. If this conversation wasn’t anything but funny, I’d laugh at my comical misjudgments.

With a deep sigh, I try and keep this as succinct as possible. “My brother, Easton, is the only real blood family I have. My parents, Violet and Henry, are cold. They see East and I more as projects and trophy cabinets. They spend more time boasting about who we are and what we do than paying attention to us as people. Easton is the favorite since he’s an incredibly successful entrepreneur and the CEO of a multi-national private equity firm based in Dubai. He’s out there most of the time with his wife and my niece, Ava. They are my only real family, but I can’t exactly drop by for a coffee on the weekend.” I offer my best fake smile.

Where is the server?

Jensen stares down at the pristine white tablecloth, grinding his molars. “So Easton is married with a family, but you told me in the text that your parents wouldn’t do well knowing your news.”

I press my lips together to stop them from shaking. “Easton is the eldest and the favorite. He’s also a man who doesn’t need to stay home and take care of the baby or take maternity leave.”

Snatching up the elderflower spritz I ordered, I take a large mouthful to try and quench my dry mouth. It’s gross, and I forcefully swallow it and then rinse my mouth with water.

Turning back to Jensen, he remains fixed in place, clearly digesting what I’ve told him. There’s a murderous look to him that I’m not sure many have seen before. But it doesn’t scare me. I know he’s hurting on my behalf. I guess to someone like him with supportive parents, this must be hard to believe and nearly impossible to wrap your head around.

“That’s what they expect? For you to prioritize your career above everything else? Fuck what you really want?” he bites.

I nod cautiously. “They paid for a lot of my education, for the best schools, and with their connections in the legal world, they secured the best placements when I was younger. They got me my current job with Mark Preston.”

He balks. “You’re kidding, right? Surely you don’t believe that kind of bullshit, Kate.” Taking a steadying breath and with the free hand that’s not in mine, he drums his pointer finger on the table in sync with his words. “Yougot that job yourself. Your talent, your drive, the fact that you work yourself into the ground day and night. I’ve never seen anyone with more commitment.”

I flush at the onslaught of compliments. “Thank you.”

“Why do you put up with it, Kate? They’re treating you like an extension of themselves. Everything you do is for them.”

“It’s not. My career is what I want.” I repeat the same words I’ve regurgitated more times than I can count.

His thumb begins tracing patterns over the top of my hand again, and shivers trickle throughout my body. “When was the last time they hugged you?”

I want to cry, but I’m determined not to. I hate this conversation, but I also love it at the same time. I appreciate that he’s pushing me to say all this out loud, but I hate the way it makes me feel to admit it—like their treatment of me truly is abhorrent.

“I can’t remember,” I whisper.

He bites the inside of his cheek this time. “When was the last time they told you they loved you?”