Page 9 of Leave Me Broken

Luca slaps my back, grinning and looking in the same direction I am. “Didn’t consider their ages, brother?”

“No,” I grit.

Parker flashes her a smile—much like my own—and Payson’s eyes fly around the room until they collide with mine. Mortification sinks in when she makes the connection, and my insides fill with unease.

Luca murmurs under his breath before walking away, “probably should introduce them.”

4

Payson

I’m coming down from a serve when a guy walks across the court, right in line for— SMACK.

Shit.

I rush over to the guy standing in the middle of the court, holding his face where the ball smoked him. Seeing how red it is, I feel a little proud, but mostly mortified. I’ve been smoked in the face by a volleyball before, it’s not fun.

“Shit, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you crossing the court.” Why was he crossing the court? I didn’t see him, but in my defense, he shouldn’t have been there.

Warm brown eyes swing my way. I’m happy to see only half his face is red. “It is not the first time. I was not paying attention. My bad, bellissima.”

Holy accent. I’ve grown accustomed to the English accent, and this is definitely not that. I don’t know what that word he said means but I definitely like how it sounds. “Where are you from?” When his deep brown eyebrow inches up his tanned skin, I want to slap myself in the face. That’s not how you ask someone that. “I mean. Like where is your accent from?” Great, now my face is burning and probably as red as his.

The guy, who I didn’t even consider how undeniably attractive he is, grins. A weird feeling twists my stomach, it’s not a good feeling, or a bad, just . . . weird. Like, I know him, but I know I don’t.

“I am from Italy.” Wow, I like the way he says Italy. Then he continues to say something in a low almost sexy voice. “Parker.” He holds a slim hand out like I’m meant to shake it. So I do.

“What are you doing here? No offense but Bayshore, Michigan isn’t exactly a hot spot for travelers. Especially in late September.”

His hand is warm, and he holds it for a beat longer than he should but eventually pulls away and uses that same hand to run through his chin-length dark brunette hair, brushing it away from his model-like face. “My Papà lives here. I moved here to live with him.”

His Papà? If I remember correctly, Papà means dad in Italian. Or that’s what they call their dads anyway. I’ve never met another Italian in Bayshore . . . oh duh. I want to smack my forehead, I almost laugh. “Right. That’s amazing, I didn’t realize Luca had a son.” It makes total sense now. He looks much like Luca. Same hair, same skin tone. Handsome, like his dad. I give him a quick once over. He’s also tall like Luca. I don’t know if he’s my age—younger or older, but he must be close.

“Like what you see, bellissima?” A sexy smirk tugs on his face and my stomach bottoms out. Not because what he said—because the way he is smirking. It’s not a Luca smirk.

I find Ash immediately. He’s standing across the room with Luca. Luca is grinning but Ash looks like what can be described only as a deer in headlights. There’s that sinking feeling again.

I take in the boy in front of me. He’s moving in with his dad. He’s Italian . . . it would make sense for Luca to be his dad, but the look on his face was not inherited from Luca. That’s a younger-Ash smirk if I’ve ever seen one.

“Who is your dad?” I ask breathlessly, my lungs can’t seem to suck in the air they need.

Parker’s smirk fades and a look of concern replaces it. He reaches out to touch me but I jerk back. In my panic, I hadn’t noticed another person walk into our conversation. Ash, not Luca. My lunch turns in my stomach, debating if it should rise or not. I hope not because chili isn’t fun to throw up.

Ash says nothing. He flicks his eyes between us. Parker is doing the same between Ash and me, and eventually his face fills with dread like he knows . . .

Ash clears his throat. “Parker, this is Payson.”

Parker’s spine steels and his eyebrows sink. He mutters something to Ash after a long minute of staring at me, and Ash gives him one firm nod. So he knows about me. He knows about me and does not look happy about it. He says something else like a question, a really disgusted question and he snarls.

Ash’s jaw ticks but he answers in a calm, firm tone. “Diciassette.”

Whatever that means makes Parker’s eyes open so wide I worry they might fall out of his head. He steps away, like he just learned I’m diseased or something. “Pedofilo.”

I don’t need to know Italian to understand what that means. It was obviously geared toward Ash, so I’m thinking the conversation was about my age, but I’ve never been more confused than I am right now. The answer is right in front of me, but I don’t want to guess. I want to be told because there’s no way what I’m thinking is right. I don’t care how many similarities are between the two men in front of me. Luca and Ash look similar too. Parker is Italian so he could still be Luca’s. Ash has a son but there’s no way he is my age, I mean, right? Sure, his voice was deepish on the phone from what I heard but . . .

Parker turns and strolls away from us with a few backward glances and a new level of disgust tugging on his lips.

Ash is the first to speak because there’s no way I can. “You met Parker.” It’s not a question.