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“No,” I said quickly, the words bursting out of me. I stared at the TV as if the rerun ofThe Officewas the most enthralling thing I’d ever seen. But I could still feel his gaze, burning against my skin.

“After what I experienced with my mother,” I softly added, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just let the words hang in the air between us.

“You’ve mentioned a few things about your mom…but can you tell me more?” he finally pressed, and I sighed as he scooped me into his lap.

I frowned at him, and he huffed and pressed a soft kiss on the tip of my nose that for some reason had me feeling a lot better than I had before. An image of my mom’s face right before she died popped into my brain, though, skeletal and almost gray-looking—and the good feelings went away.

“She was addicted to prescription painkillers for most of my life,” I began softly, a myriad of memories filling my head. “And then when she finally got sober, and was acting like a mom for the first time in my life, she got sick—and got addicted again.” I bit down on my lip, wishing there was a way to reach into your brain and pull out all the memories you didn’t want.

Of course with my life experience, there wouldn’t be much of my brain left.

I laid my head on his shoulder, allowing myself to soak up the good feelings I only seemed to get around him and his friends. “What was your mom like?” I hesitantly asked. I usually had adon’t ask personal questionsrule, but evidently I was blowing that off today.

“She died too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling callous that I’d been over here sulking and feeling sorry for myself, and he’d had loss too. “I know it was you and your dad growing up…but I’d thought she’d left—not that it’s any different!”

Logan was the one staring at the screen now, his fingers absentmindedly stroking across my skin. “She was beautiful and sad. I think my dad first brought another woman home when I was like three?”

“He brought her to your house?” I asked, my mouth falling open in shock.

He laughed, the sound harsh and disgusted and…wrong.

“Grant York doesn’t care about a thing like decency or having respect for the mother of his child. Why should he? He’s a football star. Everyone loves him,” he said mockingly.

He shook his head. “I don’t know if she ever loved him…but she did love his money. So she stayed for a while. She stayed when he fucked her sister in the closet while she was taking a nap in the same room. She stayed when he brought one of his mistresses to a Super Bowl party she was also at. She stayed…until I was six, and I’d started all-day school. And I guess that was what finally drove her to leave—all that alone time.”

“She left without you?” I asked carefully.

“Who knows if she did it willingly or if he paid her off? Either way, she left. She died a few years ago in a car accident. My dad didn’t even tell me until after the funeral.”

I bit down on my lip, my heart aching for him. I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d never been good at this sort of thing—being real with someone.

“So, what makes you believe that just because your mom sucked, you would suck too?” he finally asked calmly.

My mouth opened and closed.

“You’re not scared that maybe you would end up like your dad?” I asked hesitantly.

He huffed and raised an eyebrow. “First of all, I could be blacked out, and my dick would still know the only thing it wanted was you.”

I snorted, a rush of warmth floating through me…because I kind of believed him.

“But also, having a father like that—it makes you want to be the exact opposite. It makes you want to be better.” He shook his head. “I’m not worried in the least bit,” he said confidently. “And you shouldn’t be either…”

I bit down on my lip at that comment, wishing we could have just stopped there. The silence stretched on, though, and something inside me finally snapped.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” I murmured, swallowing hard, a familiar lump forming in my throat. “I can’t have them.”

Logan's hands slid soothingly up my sides, like the news wasn’t shocking at all…like it didn’t make a difference to him either way. “What do you mean?” he asked gently, his voice soft, careful.

I took a deep breath, my chest tightening as the memories I tried to bury resurfaced. “There was a…surgery,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It didn’t go well. Too much scar tissue. I can’t…I can’t have kids.”

There was a long pause, the weight of my words sinking in. I still couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I didn’t want to see the pity or the disappointment or whatever else he might be feeling. I didn’t want to face it.

“It’s fine,” I added quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I’ve made peace with it.”