I turned my back on him, furiously scrubbing at a plate that was already clean. But there were no more dishes in the sink and I wasn’t ready to surrender to the realization that I had nothing left to do. Pretty Boy’s fussing over me felt strange, too. I preferred the Pretty Boy who was ready to verbally spar with me at any moment, teasing, flirting.
I had no clue what to do with this version of Pretty Boy—caring and considerate, thoughtful, probing to talk about my feelings.
“Just because you’re President now doesn’t mean that you can butt in whenever you want,” I said.
“ActingPresident,” he corrected, fully stepping into the kitchen. He came up beside me and started drying dishes.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I sniped.
Pretty Boy slid a sideways glance at me, unfazed by my prickliness. My stomach flipped when I met his hazel eyes and I quickly looked away.
“What’s got you all jumpy?” he asked in a surprisingly soft voice. “You’ve had nerves of steel for as long as I’ve known you.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
“Lila,” Pretty Boy said, bordering on a growl that sent butterflies whirling in my unsettled stomach.
I couldn’t do this—I couldn’t be in such close proximity to him when his voice, his eyes, the heat of his presence, was tying me up in knots.
Grabbing a kitchen towel to dry my hands, I pushed away from the sink and moved to the other side of the room. I scooped up my beer from the table and drained the last of it dry.
“Did Dad say anything to you about his financial situation?” I asked.
Pretty Boy frowned, confused at my sudden change of subject.
“No. Why?”
“I got a call,” I said.
Pretty Boy didn’t even blink and his expression remained completely unchanged, almost as if he…he had expected I would say that.
“Fuck, you knew already,” I hissed.
“Ironside noticed that you seemed rattled and he mentioned it to me,” Pretty Boy replied.
I sighed, balled up the kitchen towel, and tossed it on the table.
“You’re all a bunch of goddamn busy bodies. Little old church ladies don’t even gossip as much as you boys do.”
The corner of Pretty Boy’s mouth twitched with an almost-smile and his eyes gleamed. I pointed at him.
“Don’t you dare laugh. This isn’t funny.”
He held up his hands.
“I didn’t say anything. But it really shouldn’t surprise you that secrets don’t last long around here.”
I pulled out a chair at the table and dropped into it.
“Dad had a secret. And from what I can tell, he kept it from everyone.”
Pretty Boy’s amusement died instantly. He took the chair across from me and propped his elbows on the table.
“What happened?”
I blew out a breath and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Dad borrowed three hundred thousand dollars from Edgar fucking Sweeney, and now he needs to pay it back. In full. Cash. In forty-eight hours.”