Donovan grabbed the remote and pressed a button. The TV illuminated with a half-dozen episodes of The Bachelor.

“Awww. You’re very sweet, but we don’t have to watch that. I know you’re not a fan.”

“How am I going to find out if Kayla’s dad really hits Brad during the hometown visit or not, if I don’t watch the next episode?”

My eyes flared. “You watched The Bachelor?”

“You said you were going to watch the last five episodes if Skye had the flu.” He shrugged. “Figured I had some catching up to do. I got out of court early today, so I binge-watched up to where you left off.”

My insides melted. “I can’t believe you did that.”

He swallowed a mouthful of ice cream and pointed his spoon at me. “If you mention it to Bud, I’ll deny it.”

I pretended to zip my mouth shut over my smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

After I finished my dessert, I snuggled next to Donovan on the couch and covered us both with a blanket. At one point, he took a break from his ice cream and rested his hand on my thigh. It felt like it could burn an imprint into my bare skin. I did my best to ignore it. Halfway through the first episode, my cell phone rang. It was on the end table next to Donovan, so he handed it to me. Dad flashed on the screen.

I sighed. “He’s been relentless the last few days. His wedding is next weekend, and I still haven’t given him an answer. My therapist thinks I should go.”

Donovan pushed a button on the TV to pause the show. “But you don’t want to?”

I shook my head and silenced my phone. “I don’t know. We used to be so close, especially right after my mom died. I don’t have much family other than him. My mom was an only child, and both her parents passed away when I was little. But…it’s hard for me to forget how he handled things six years ago.”

Donovan’s eyes roamed my face. “You mentioned he wasn’t supportive after, but did he not stand by you when things went down?”

“He insisted I get into therapy, and he did anything I asked. But he was kind of distant during the entire thing. At the police station, when I finally decided to come forward and report what had happened, I cried the whole time, and the policewoman comforted me. My father just kind of sat there, almost detached. And I couldn’t understand how he could stay partners with Braden’s father after everything he’d heard me say.”

“What did he say when you told him that?”

I frowned. “I didn’t—not at first, anyway. I let all of my anger toward him build for a long time. About a year after everything happened, my therapist convinced me to talk to him. Unfortunately, I did that after having a little too much to drink one night, and the talk didn’t go as it probably should’ve. I was very emotional and said some horrible things, and then I refused to talk to him once I’d sobered up—not very mature, I know.”

“A person who went through what you did handles it however they need to handle it. It sounds to me like you shouldn’t even have had to have that discussion, or deal with any of it.”

“When I refused to listen to him, he went to talk to my therapist. She wouldn’t discuss anything with him, but he asked her to listen to him and talk to me on his behalf. He claimed he’d been in shock for a while, that he saw himself going through the motions with me, but was checked out mentally, sort of like watching a movie about what was going on. That’s why he wasn’t emotional or sympathetic at the time.”

“And you don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know. My therapist says a lot of the things he described to her are classic symptoms of psychological shock. But I just…” I shook my head. “I felt so alone back then, and it’s hard for me to forget. Plus, then there’s his string of marriages and the crazy stuff he’s done over the years.”

“Is he still partners with the father?”

“No, he’s not. The week after my drunken tirade, he split from his partner. He claimed he didn’t realize how much it upset me because I hadn’t said anything, and because they’d fired Braden after I went to the police.” I shook my head. “Honestly, he’s tried to make it up to me for years. He handled things wrong, but maybe he did have his reasons. I would like to forgive him and forget, but I don’t know how.”

“Do you have to do both?”

“What do you mean?”

“Forgiving and forgetting—I think they’re two different things. When you forgive, you allow yourself to stop harboring resentment so that you can be at peace with something. I’ve forgiven my mother for the shit she did when I was growing up—for disappearing for months at a time and leaving me on the streets to fend for myself. She’s not perfect, that’s for damn sure. But I needed to let go of the resentment for me more than I did for her. Now, I haven’t forgotten. Every time she calls to hit me up for cash, I remember. But I ask her how she is and talk to her anyway. Sometimes we even meet for dinner, if she doesn’t hang up on me after I tell her I’m not giving her any money so she can put it up her nose.”

He stroked my cheek. “I don’t think you can forget, and I think that’s probably a good thing, because we learn from all the shit in our past. But you can still choose to forgive, if you want.” Donovan put his hands up. “To be clear, I’m not taking your father’s side. Everything you told me makes me dislike him more than I already did. But I am on your side, and if you want to move on, you should. You can’t wait until you’re able to forgive and forget. Because you probably will never forget.”

Oh my God. Waves of emotion swept over me. For years, my therapist had been trying to talk me through moving on with my dad, and in five minutes, this man had gotten through to me. He was absolutely right. If I was waiting to have any relationship with my father until all of this was behind me, I’d be waiting forever. It felt like a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

“Would you be my date for his wedding if I went?”

Donovan smiled. “Sweetheart, if you asked me to be your date to walk you into hell, I wouldn’t say no. Of course I’ll go with you. I’d be happy to.”

I smiled back. “Okay, well, I’m not sure wedding number eight and a trip to hell are that different, so thank you.”

He winked. “No problem.”

Donovan scraped the last of his ice cream from the bottom of his bowl like he hadn’t just talked me through a monumental breakthrough in my life. The man had no clue how perfect he was. To look the way he did, have the smarts he had, and have such a deep understanding of flawed-human psychology? He was pretty special.

I reached out and pinched his arm.

He glanced down at the spot and looked up with an adorably crooked smile. “What was that for?”

“Just making sure you’re real.”

He never took his eyes off of me as he set his ice cream bowl on the table and scooped me into his lap.

I giggled as I straddled him.

Donovan dug his fingers into my hair and pulled my lips down to meet his. “Come here. Let me show you real.”

His tongue dipped inside, and he tilted my head ever so slightly to deepen the kiss. Lord, could this man do magical things with his mouth. And I remembered from our weekend that he was very generous in showing off this talent in other places. There was something so desperate when the two of us touched. It had been like that from the very start; as if once we collided, we needed each other to survive.