Playing for Keeps (The Game #2)(34)
Author: Emma Hart

Gramps looks at me and winks. “Gotta keep the boy on his toes. So, Megan, are you the girlfriend?” He looks so much like Aston in that second I can’t help but smile wider.

“That’s me.”

“He never mentioned you before.”

“It’s, um … Complicated.”

“Protective older brother ready to kick some pretty-boy ass?”

I think I love this man.

“Something like that.” I grin. “Best friend.”

“Jackass frat boy?” he questions.

I nod.

“See, boy? I told you they’re all jackasses. Were in my day, still are now.”

“And you raised the biggest one,” Aston pats the old man’s shoulder, putting a tray of drinks on the table and passing me one.

“Thank you.” I look up at him, feeling a little shy now we’re in front of his gramps.

“Damn right. And he’s a pretty boy! No one can tell me I did half a job raisin’ you, kid.” Gramps grins, raises his glass of lemonade, and takes a drink before setting it back on the table. “So, Megan, do you like literature?”

Aston smirks, resting his arm on the sofa behind me, and I smile. “It’s my major.”

Gramps’ eyes light up and he sits up a little straighter. “Favorite novelist?”

“Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice, before you ask.”

“By God, boy!” he exclaims in glee and claps his hands. “We have a keeper with this one!” He turns to me again. “Second favorite?”

I chew my lip for a second. “Dickens or Louisa May Alcott. It’s tough, but Alcott might just win out. Her ability to create a whole cast of compelling, lovable characters – not just one or two – is something I’ve yet to find in another writer.”

Gramps shakes his head. “You’re telling me Little Women is better than Great Expectations?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “Not better – the stories are on par with each other, but their styles are very different. My preference runs with Alcott’s style, and I have a bit of a crush on Laurie.” I shrug a shoulder.

“How many boys in books are you dating?” Aston pokes my shoulder. “First Darcy, now Laurie …”

“The proper term is book boyfriend,” I correct him. “And there are many swoon-worthy characters in the literary world, new and old.”

“What about if I was in a book?” He grins. “Would I be your book boyfriend?”

“God help the world if someone ever wrote you into a book, boy,” Gramps grumbles. “That would be a literary disaster.”

Aston sticks his tongue out, and Gramps laughs.

“Be nice, old man, or I’ll hide the walking stick.”

“Hide the walking stick and I’ll kick your ass with it!” Gramps threatens. “It wouldn’t be the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last!”

I smile, looking at Aston and tuning the conversation out a little as they continue to banter back and forth. His body and expression are relaxed, his smile easy, and his eyes light. This is the real Aston, the one he doesn’t show. He’s happy and playful, yet there’s an underlying shadow to him.

If I ever had any doubt whether or not I was falling in love with Aston Banks, it’s been completely wiped out.

There is no doubt. Here in the place he spent the happier years of his childhood sitting across from the man who made him into the incredible person he is today, there is only certainty.

Aston’s expression darkens slightly, and I listen again.

“Gramps …”

“I just want to know if you went.”

“No. I didn’t go and I don’t plan to.”

I look between the two, trying not to appear nosey – very hard when you feel like a third wheel.

“It might do you good.”

“I’m not ready.”

“It’s been thirteen years, boy.”

“I don’t care if it’s been thirteen or thirty, Gramps. I’m not ready!” Aston stands and leaves the room, leaving his Gramps sighing.

The old man turns his face toward the window, his own shadows passing over his face. His eyes flick to me, hovering on my face for a moment. “Did he tell you? About himself?”

“Some,” I reply honestly. “He got so far and … It was too much.”

He nods his head, his gaze going back to the window. “I got him when he was six – the day they found out his mom had died. She was my baby. My only child. Losing her near killed me but he gave me something to live for. I had to protect him and give him the life she couldn’t.

“He spent two days in hospital while he was checked out. He was underweight, dirty, and completely starving. But that wasn’t the worst. There was a big gash on his palm with tiny pieces of glass in that had been left, scratches, and healing cuts across his legs, and a huge bruise on his back.” He looks at me, and I don’t try to disguise my horror.

“How could …” I trail off, putting my hand to my mouth as what he just said processes in my mind, and I shake my head.

I try to process it but I just can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine the pain Aston must have been in, both mental and physical. It makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I flatten my other hand over it like it’ll stop the churning inside.

“He blames his mom for what happened. He blames her for never protecting him – but I’m the one that should be blamed. I knew she wasn’t fit to keep him, yet I left it anyway. His gran died when he was four and I was stuck in a loop of grief.” He looks back at the window, and I follow suit, seeing Aston leaning against a tree. “I should be blamed for not protecting him.”

“You didn’t know what was happening, did you?”

“No.”

The sadness coming off of him wraps around me and hurts me as much as Aston’s does. I can see in the slump of his shoulders the guilt he’s been carrying around for all these years, and in the downturn of his lips how much he really feels he’s to blame. And it makes me mad. I hate that this innocent and loving old man feels that way because of the cruel and selfish actions of complete and utter bastards.

I sit up straighter. “Then how can you be blamed for something you knew nothing about? You took him in and brought him up to be the person he is today, and as much as he doesn’t believe it, he’s a credit to you. He doesn’t see it, but he is. You did your best to make your daughter’s wrongs right again. You could have walked away and left him to the state, but you didn’t, and I for one think that makes you an incredible person.”