She returned the smile and surprised him by ordering the Mongolian barbecue beef. She might be a small woman but she had a healthy appetite. He liked that.
“Very good selection,” Quon intoned, his lips still a flat line as he scurried off toward the kitchen.
Being alone with Gloria—with anyone, really—was the very thing Malcolm had tried to avoid since the news of his father’s death.
He wasn’t ready to be the shoulder to cry on. How could he deal with other people’s grief when he didn’t know how to deal with his own? However, the longer he stayed in Gloria’s presence, the more he was able to see through her thin veneer. She wanted what everyone wanted—for him to open up.
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted that, too.
As he witnessed her struggle, a small part of him caved. “I loved my father,” Malcolm said suddenly.
Gloria lifted her shimmering gaze.
“I don’t want you to think I stopped loving him,” he added softly, and then cleared his throat. “I still love him. It’s just that our relationship in the past couple of years was…complicated.”
“Most are.”
“Oh?” He arched his brow. “I’ve never heard you talk about your family.”
“When have you ever been around?” she asked.
“I guess that’s a good point,” Malcolm said with a tilt of his head. “Are you close to your father?”
Gloria’s eyes lowered to the table while she gave a firm shake of her head.
Malcolm wondered how it was possible she could judge him when she apparently had issues with her own father. Yet, he bit back the comment.
As if she’d heard his private thoughts, she responded, “Trust me. My father wasn’t half the man Harmon Braddock was. He was a drunk and an abuser. The happiest day in my life was when he walked right out of it.”
Stunned, Malcolm remained silent. Finally, he slowly nodded in understanding, but he was more curious than ever. During their quiet spells, Malcolm couldn’t help but reflect over his childhood once again, zeroing in on the number of Little League and college games his father did make time for, and the number of father-and-son camping events he and Ty enjoyed despite their father’s busy schedule. Harmon Braddock had a way of making his sons feel ten feet tall, always bragging to anyone who’d stand still long enough to listen.
The truth of the matter was that Malcolm had had a wonderful childhood.
That annoying stinging in the back of Malcolm’s eyes returned as well as the mountainous lump clogging his windpipe, but thank God, Quon returned, rescuing him from his emotions with their dinner orders.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked, setting their plates before them.
After they assured him they had everything they needed, Quon, once again, slipped away from the table.
For a time they ate in silence before Malcolm blurted, “I keep thinking that at any moment I’m going to wake up and find out that the past week has just been a dream.” He stared into his plate. “A nightmare, really.”
Gloria said nothing.
“It’s true what they say,” he said. “Regret has a way of killing you softly. There were so many times I wanted to call.”
She reached across the table and covered his hand. The warmth of her touch traveled up the length of his arm.
“Don’t beat yourself up. I know the disagreement between you two spiraled out of control, but the love remained. That much was evident.”
“But did he know?” Malcolm questioned.
“Of course he did.” Gloria nodded. “And you know something else? He was extremely proud of you—your intelligence, convictions and even your passion.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “He was proud of all his children, and if you don’t mind me saying so, he had every right to be.”
Her encouraging words were just the balm Malcolm needed. He only prayed they were the truth. After all, every child wants their parents to be proud of them.
Gloria chuckled and drew Malcolm out of his melancholy.
“What’s so funny?” His lips curled, ready to join in on the joke.
“You probably don’t know this,” she said. “But once upon a time, your father tried to hook us up together.”
His laughter came easily at that revelation. “You’re joking.”
“Hilarious, isn’t it?” She shook her head and released his hand. “The first few months I started working for him, he wouldn’t stop telling me how much of a fine catch you were and how a woman would be crazy not to cast her net in your direction.” She chuckled. “He actually said ‘cast her net.’ He shoved so many dinner invitations my way, I ran out of excuses to why I couldn’t come.”
Malcolm choked on his food.
“Are you all right?” she asked when it started to sound like he was trying to hack up a lung.
He bobbed his head, reached for his iced water.
She watched him through growing concern until he finally held up a finger and said, “I’m okay.”
“What happened? Went down the wrong pipe?”
“Something like that.” He cleared his throat and favored her with a smile. “You mean all those times you showed up at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner and holiday meals were because my dad was trying to play Cupid?”
She returned his smile. “After we met at that one fund-raiser, I told him not to bother. We mixed as well as oil and water.”
“Now, who is the oil in this scenario?”
Gloria waved a finger, letting him know she wasn’t going to allow him to bait her into an argument. “The point is that we’re completely wrong for each other,” she stressed.
Malcolm hadn’t intended to, but he frowned. What was it about him that she found rejection-able? He straightened his chair and averted his gaze.
“Not that I don’t find you attractive,” she rushed to say as she sensed his bruised ego. “I do.”
He glanced up.
“I mean—any woman would. It’s just, um, personality-wise, we don’t mesh.”
“Because you don’t like men with intelligence, convictions and—what was it—passion?”
“Right.” She blinked. “Wait. I mean—”
Malcolm’s head rocked back while his chest rumbled with laughter. “Please. Please. Let’s quit before you really hurt my feelings.”
Gloria pressed her lips together, but her eyes seemed to dance with the candlelight. “I do have a way of putting my foot in my mouth, don’t I?”
Leaning over to the side, he squinted under the table and blinked. “You better be careful. Those jokers are big.”
“Ha. Ha.” She rolled her eyes. “You got me back. Can we eat now?”
“No, really. What size are those puppies—eleven, twelve?”
“Eight.” She kicked him.
“Ow.” He laughed.
“Serves you right, saying my feet are big. The real question is what size are your feet? You know what they say about the size of a man’s feet.” She leaned over and glanced under