Stolen English by Tasha Boyd

Author:Tasha Boyd [Boyd, Tasha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781736997932
Publisher: Natasha Boyd

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Hey,” I whispered up into the darkness of the tent.

Evan groaned. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t just go to sleep on demand.” I turned my head in his direction. “Can you?”

“Yes, I can. Surely that hike and swim tired you out?”

“Maybe I’m overtired.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

I’d managed to persuade Evan that us lying in tandem, rather than top to tail, was better for us to have whispered conversation no one would hear before we fell asleep. “It is for me. Tell me about your parents,” I said.

He gave a long-suffering sigh that made me smile. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“What are they like?”

“That’s broad.”

I waited.

“Well, my dad was kind of in the same business I am. He worked for Xavier’s parents for a while when I was a teenager before we moved back to England. That’s how I met Xavier.”

“I actually knew that. How about your mum?”

“She was a teacher.”

“Of?”

“English and French lit.”

“Here or in England?”

“Both.”

This was like pulling teeth. “Is she nice?”

“She’s amazing.”

“How did a bodyguard and a teacher meet?”

“Are you sure you’re not tired?” he grumbled.

“Nope.” I smiled. Evan didn’t realize the favor he was doing me. We were sharing a tent after all, and I could simply practice being close with someone else tonight. Maybe it didn’t have to be sexual. At that thought, my mind rebelled, immediately calculating the distance and layers between us. About eight inches, two sleeping bags and two t-shirts. What I wouldn’t give to feel my bare skin pressed against someone else. Just for a few moments. I swallowed hard.

He’d made it obvious earlier he was trying to backtrack everything that had happened this morning even though he had admitted the kiss was the same for him as it was for me, and I’d never taken him for a liar. His reasons for backing off this evening were his own, and I was determined not to take them personally.

But maybe he could … do me a favor? If I found the right way to ask him. But for now I tried to keep him engaged in conversation. “So, how did they meet?”

“Through a mutual friend.”

“That’s it? That’s the story?”

I heard and felt rather than saw him roll in my direction. “It’s not the story. The story is that my mother …” He paused. “My mother, my incredibly strong and intelligent and beautiful mother, was trapped in an abusive relationship.”

I held my breath, not even blinking. I hadn’t known this.

“My father helped her leave it. It wasn’t romantic for them. Not at first. She had a young son, and her abuser kept her financially and emotionally captive, so my father found a way to help her. In the end they fell in love.”

He delivered the words quickly and detached, like CliffsNotes. There obviously was so much more. But the parallels to our situation clearly made him want to get through it unemotionally. Apart from that one thing. “The young son?” I asked.

“Me,” he confirmed quietly. “And before you ask, my father is my father.

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