Well, she’s his little girl.
Even if she feels like mine sometimes.
“We should get back to the house,” he says gruffly. His expression is closed-off, almost sullen.
“Wait,” I say. “Lucio, are you alright?”
He glances at me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“She is your daughter,” I point out. “You must have been scared.”
His eyes turn hard and flinty. As though the mere mention of vulnerability on his part pisses him off.
Normally, I’d let that go. How many times in the last few weeks have I let similar macho-manmoments pass by without comment?
But the terror of seeing Evie’s face turn blue has chipped away at my normal restraint—howeverminimal that may’ve been to begin with.
“Why do you think it makes you weak to admit that?” I demand. I’m just fed up and frus
