His expression softened. “We’ll take whiskey off the list, honey.”

I smiled. “Good. This . . . this hasn’t been like those times with Mom. Why was I so afraid?” I didn’t give him a chance to answer, because I jumped to my feet, my wrist slipping free from his loose grasp. The sudden movement caused me to stagger, and I threw out my arms to steady myself. “Whoa doggie . . .”

Jax rose easily and he didn’t sway. “Calla, baby, maybe you should sit down.”

Sitting down sounded smart. “What was I about to do?”

He was grinning again. “I’m not sure. You were talking about being afraid.”

I wrinkled my nose, and then it hit me. “Oh! Stay right there.” I took off before he could stop me.

“Calla—”

Heading into the bedroom, I went to the closet and grabbed my items. Holding them close to my chest, I stumbled back into the living room. Jax was standing by the couch, both brows raised.

I walked to where he stood and placed the trophy I’d won at the Miss Sunshine Pageant, or some stupid shit name like that, on the coffee table. “That’s mine.”

Jax sat on the edge of the couch, his gaze falling onto the trophy. The metal and plastic glittered under the living room ceiling light.

“I used to be in pageants.” Part of me, the tiny slice that was stuck in the haze in my head, couldn’t believe I was telling him this. I hadn’t told anyone. “Since I was, like, a newborn. No joke. I couldn’t even sit up and Mom had me in pageants. I could’ve been on the TV show—you know, Toddlers & Tiaras? That was so me, for like years.”

His gaze finally drifted back to me, to the photo I held close to my chest. Again, there was a strange look to the way he stared at me.

So I lifted the frame and turned it around, facing him. “This is what I used to look like. I mean, yeah, I was like eight or nine in this picture or whatever, but this is what I used to look like.”

Jax’s lashes lowered for maybe a fraction of a second.

I started blabbing again. “I won trophies and crowns and sashes and money. There were more—hundreds of crowns and trophies, but I got mad once. I was fourteen or fifteen—anyway, I was in high school and threw them out the window. They broke. Mom flipped out. Went on a bender for days. It was bad. There wasn’t any food in the house or any detergent to clean my clothes.”

His brows furrowed together as he stared at me now, not the picture of me back then. “Did she do that often?”

I glanced down at my photo, all blond ringlets and big smile, with big fake white teeth—flippers, they were called flippers, and I hated the way they felt and tasted. The fake teeth had hurt my mouth, but when I wore them Mom said I was beautiful. All the judges said I was beautiful. I won awards because of the stupid teeth. Dad . . . he would just shake his head. “What?”