“Don’t pull away. I just need to hold you…even if it’s a small part of you.” His voice is thick with meaning.
His chest is pressed against my shoulder, reminding me how good it feels to have Tom’s body touching mine.
My head starts to spin.
Lifting my head, I stare up into his eyes and nod.
With his grip tight on my hand, he leads me into the house and straight to the living room.
It’s the first time I’m seeing it. It’s much like his bedroom—manly, dark wood, white walls, a comfy-looking black L-shaped sofa, a huge flat screen on the wall.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks, leading me toward the sofa.
“No, thanks.”
Tom sits and tugs my hand, pulling me to sit down beside him.
We’re at the corner, so I shuffle over, letting go of his hand, I put a good bit of distance between us.
I can see from the look on his face that he’s not happy about the distance, but I need to talk to him with a clear head, and Tom touching any part of me leaves my mind fuzzy and my judgment clouded.
Determination in his eyes, Tom shifts over to me, leaving little room between us. Then, he turns his body toward mine, which presses his jean-covered knee up against my bare outer thigh.
The contact is like a live wire on my skin.
I sigh, and look at him. His eyes are dark, and telling me that if I move, there will be trouble.
I stay put.
He leans forward—forearms on his thighs, hands linked together—bringing him even closer to me. He exhales, and I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.
“Why am I here, Tom?”
His eyes study me silently for a moment. “I need you to know how sorry I am for the way I behaved. The things I said to you the last time we saw each other were unforgiveable. I’m so sorry.”
I clench my jaw. “Oh, you mean when I bared my soul to you, and you told me—and I quote—‘Take your declaration of love, and tell it to someone who wants it.’ Then, you rode away from me without a second thought.”
“There was a second thought.” His expression turns to granite. “I’ve regretted what I said every moment since.”
“So, why? Why hurt me like that if you didn’t mean it?” The pain from that day is still so raw inside me.
“I don’t know…fear.” He shrugs.
“Fear?” I’m confused and pissed off, and it’s telling in my tone.
Guilt sharpens his expression. “What I’m trying to say is…maybe deep down, I thought if I hurt you, then it would make walking away from you easy. If you hated me, then there would be no going back. I just didn’t factor in how much I would miss you. How empty things—I…would feel without you.” His smile is crooked, heartfelt…rueful.
“I don’t understand. If you wanted me, then why did you push me away?”
Maybe I’m just being dumb here, but I can’t understand his logic.
He drops his gaze. “Because I’m fucked up.”
“No, you’re not.” I shake my head. “You’re emotionally detached but not fucked up.”
His eyes come back to mine. “I’m fucked up, Ly. If you knew everything about me—things I’ve done, the way I’ve behaved—you wouldn’t be saying that.”
“Even after the way you behaved toward me that day, Tom, it didn’t change how I view you. And it’s not about to change with whatever you need to tell me now.”
“I just hope to God you’re still saying that when I’m done telling you everything.” His hand rubs over his hair. He seems nervous, uncomfortable. “The things I have to tell you…my timing really sucks, but to make you understand…well, me…I have to tell you this.”
“So, tell me. I’m listening.” I stare at him, encouraging him with my eyes.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “What happened with Dex today…I understand what you’re going through.”
His eyes move down. After a moment, he lifts them to look at me. I see a vulnerability I never thought I’d see in Tom.
“I know how you feel because when I was thirteen years old, my father committed suicide.”
“Oh God, Tom, I’m so sorry.” I grab his hand, squeezing it.
With what’s happened with Dex, it’s still so raw. And knowing what it felt like to lose my mother, my heart aches for Tom.
His fingers curl around my hand. “With Dex and how you lost your mom…how the press portrayed it…you and I have a lot more in common than you realize.”
“Not a great thing to have in common though,” I say, fingers tugging on my lip.
He takes my hand from my mouth. Holding both my hands, he laces our fingers together. I turn my body into his, his leg positioned between mine, putting us face-to-face.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. But there is more to you and me than just that. I just need you to know that I understand how you felt when you were younger after you lost your mom. The press attention…” His gaze digs into the carpet beneath my feet. “My dad wasn’t famous in the sense like your mom, but my family’s name is…recognizable. And the way he died made the press very interested in us.”
His family name?
“Your family name? Carter?” I say, confused, trying to think of recognizable Carters. I don’t get past President Carter, but there’s no way Tom’s related to him. I think.
He gives me a regretful smile. “No, Ly…Carter isn’t actually my surname. It’s my middle name. My surname is Segal.”
I give him a look of confusion. “Segal? You mean, like the whiskey you hate?”
“Yeah, Firecracker, like the whiskey I hate. Thing is…that whiskey I hate technically belongs to me. Well, the company does. My full name is Thomas Carter Segal, the Fourth.”
Hold the fucking phone.
He’s Thomas Segal? Isn’t Thomas Segal dead? Didn’t he die, like, a few hundred years ago?
Don’t be so fucking stupid, Lyla. Of course he’s not that Thomas Segal. He must be his great-great grandson or something.
Holy shit.
Okay. We need to pause for a moment.
To put this into perspective, Tom telling me that he’s Thomas Segal IV is pretty much like him telling me that he’s Jack Daniels’s great-great grandkid.
Jack, Jim, Johnnie, and Thomas—four of the biggest names in whiskey.
And I’ve been sleeping with Thomas.