Surprise Daddies (#1-4 Box Set)

by London James

  Blaire whistles. “He is a billionaire? Holy shit.”

  In the picture, he is smiling, shaking Lei Zhang’s hand, but the smile isn’t reaching his eyes. To everyone else, he is the happiest man alive, but I see the loneliness in his blue eyes. Regardless, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He has really grown up. Gone is the boyish look, and what replaces it is a sharp, square jawline covered in neatly trimmed facial hair.

  I never imagined Rowan wearing a suit. He hated those things growing up, especially ties, which I do not see in this picture. Of course not. Instead, he is wearing a cream-colored blazer with a white shirt that is open at the top near the neck. What a smoke show.

  Still, even though he is all man now, I see the boy I once knew staring back at me. I see the boy who punched Malcolm in the face the night of the bonfire all those years ago. I wipe a tear away quick before Blaire can see. These memories, it’s like they never happened. Like I dreamed them up. Everything happened so long ago; it’s hard to remember what’s truth and what’s not.

  I sit the newspaper down on the old oak coffee table and get up to meander to the entertainment center that holds all my crafts. I open the drawer and grab the scrapbook I’ve been making of Rowan and I since we were just kids. The last five years have just been of him, obviously, but I like to keep all of his achievements. Anytime I see him in the paper or a magazine; I place it in the scrapbook.

  It’s a way for me to be close to him without actually having to be close. I sit back down on the couch, open my kit to grab my scissors, and start cutting the front page out. Once I have the photo cut out separately from the article, I glue it in the book, right along with all his other accomplishments.

  “You still do that, huh?” Blaire asks.

  I sigh as I lift my shoulder, “I know. It’s silly, isn’t it?”

  “No, I think it’s great. I still believe you guys are meant to be together.”

  “Blaire—”

  “—I know, I know. You don’t think there is a chance in hell, but something tells me there is. You don’t do that for someone you’ve given up on, no one does.” She points to the scrapbook in my hand. It’s old, and the binding is starting to tear. No matter how many times I’ve superglued it and taped it, it just keeps falling apart. Like it’s telling me it is time to let it go, but I refuse.

  I’ll never let it go.

  I rub my temples when her words strike a headache. “Blaire, we have been over this. Really. He doesn’t do the same things I do.”

  “That you know of.”

  “That I know. Rowan hates me. End of story. I deserve for him to.”

  “You only did it because that’s what you thought was best at the time.”

  “Yeah and look where it got me.” I run my fingers over the tattoo I got a few years back, my skin heating at the memory of the needle piercing my skin.

  “You are different people now. Don’t give up hope.”

  I swallow the heavy emotion in my throat. I lost hope a long time ago. Now I just need to get on with my life and straighten it out so I can get a job doing something I love. “It is what it is, I’m fine, Blaire. Really. Rowan and I are old news. The oldest news. He is someone I’ll never be able to forget, and I’ll always love him, but both of us have moved on.”

  She lifts her brows at me, giving me a look that says she doesn’t believe a word I say. “You’ve moved on so well; you’re gluing his article to your scrapbook.”

  I tap my fingers against the cover and stare at the picture of him and I on the front when we were eight, maybe nine.

  “Whatever,” I mumble. “I can be proud of him and want to celebrate his successes. It doesn’t mean I’m in love with him anymore.” Liar. “We are different people now. We probably wouldn’t even like one another even if it wasn’t for the history between us.” Excuses, excuses, Everly. Just keep telling yourself that.

  “Riiight,” she drawls. “Well, while you sit over there in your denial, I’m going to hop in the shower.”

  Once Blaire vanishes into her bedroom, I lean my head against the couch cushion and wonder when my entire being will stop yearning for Rowan. I don’t believe a word I said to Blaire, not fully. I want to believe it. I know the treatment I get from him is what I deserve. I don’t expect anything less than a cold shoulder for the rest of his life. I left him in a horrible way, but I never stopped caring. Will never stop caring.

  No matter how my actions when I was eighteen contradicted that.

  So yeah, I keep all of his awards and achievements I find in a scrapbook because it is a way of making myself feel close to him again. Even if I never speak to him again, which I won’t, even if we are family now—ah, just the thought makes me shiver—doesn’t mean I don’t wish him the best in life.

  I groan, or maybe whimper, as I get up to put the scrapbook away. Maybe I should lock it in the entertainment center, and then throw away the key. Then I wouldn’t ever have to open the scrapbook again.

  Hmmm.

  The cabinet stares at me, mocking me, telling me I can’t do it.

  I throw the book in there and slam it closed. I know I won’t ever be able to lock it away, but I do need to step away from it.

  Blowing a piece of hair out of my face, annoyed with how long it has gotten, I toss my hair in a messy bun and drag my feet along the hardwood floors to the kitchen. I need a glass of wine.

  Or a bottle.

  Two bottles.

  Yeah, that sounds good. I open the bottle cabinet where Blaire keeps her wine stash. Every time she goes to the store, she picks up a bottle of cheap, five-dollar wine. She says it’s to prepare for rainy days. Well, now we have thirty bottles of wine, and today is a rainy day for me.

  So, I’m just going to grab… “Let’s see.” I rummage through the reds, trying to get to the whites. “Ah, Moscato. The forgotten.” I grab two bottles of it, not even bothering to grab a glass because it’s just one of those days, you know?

  I sit back down on the couch and screw off the top—yes, it’s so cheap it doesn’t even have a cork—and take a swig. Right at the moment the liquid hits my lips, my phone rings. I down the sip quickly and pull the bottle away from my lips, a few drops falling down my chin as I reach for my cell on the table. My brows pinch as I see an unknown number calling me. I swallow the sweet, peach flavor of the Moscato and swipe my finger to answer.

  I don’t usually take calls from numbers I don’t know, but my instincts screamed for me to answer it.

  “Hello?” I greet.

  “Is this Everly Madison? Daughter of Barbara Michaels?” The deep tone of the man’s voice on the other end of the line has my spine straightening.

  “Yes, this is she.” I place the bottle down on the coffee table. I’ve seen movies. It’s never a good thing when someone asks that question. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to my mother?”

  My heart races. Sweat builds over my brow. It gets hot. Too hot. My brain is shutting down. I want to pass out, but I can’t.

  “This is Deputy Josh Kendall in Denver, Colorado. I got a report from Mountains Retreat, the resort your folks are staying at.”

  Blah, folks. My mom is my folk, not Mr. Michaels. “Yes? Are they okay? Did they get arrested or something? My mom can get kind of crazy on champagne.” I bet that’s it. My mom sometimes thinks she is still in college. “What did my mother do?”

  “Well, the resort has filed a missing persons report. Neither of your parents have been seen from the hike they took around thirty-six hours ago. We’ve checked the room they are staying in, and they aren’t there, but their stuff is, leading me to believe they are lost on the mountain. We searched today, but we can’t find them. A bad snowstorm is coming, and time is crucial. I recommend you get here as soon as possible.”

  The breath whooshes from my lungs, and the room starts to spin. No, not my mom. Please, not my mom, too.

  “You’re sure?” I struggle to say. “Maybe they went somewhere else last minute.” Proba
bly not. Mom always wanted to go to Denver, and Mr. Michaels made that dream come true for her. But I had to hope.

  “I’m sure, ma’am. There is a chance your parents are still alive. There are a lot of caves and cliffs they can seek shelter under, but every hour that passes that we don’t find them is another hour that storm gets closer. When that storm hits…”

  He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. It speaks for itself. When that storm hits, they are probably dead. “Okay, okay. Can you give me the information of the resort again, please?” I wipe my tears on my shoulder, trying not to soak the paper in front of me. I click the pen and write down everything he says.

  After I hang up, I fight through the tears and book a ticket with the remainder of the money I have in my account. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there, but I’ll figure out something. My flight leaves in three hours, but instead of hurrying to pack, I grab the bottle of wine again and chug.

  Not my mom. Please.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rowan

  The hum of the plane jolts me awake as we land. The tires squeal against the pavement, burning, and dust and smoke from the friction drifts into the air. My body springs forward from the momentum. Once the airplane slows, a ding rings overhead, and the captain welcomes us to Denver, Colorado.

  I rub my eyes, dreading getting off this hunk of metal. I’m not quite sure how this day is going to go. Getting a call saying my father and Barbara were missing plucked a few strings of fear in me, and not knowing anything about the situation has kept me unsettled.

  A sigh escapes my lips as the seatbelt sign turns off, telling us it is okay to get up and de-board. I’m in first class, and I don’t feel like getting up, but if I don’t, I’ll be stuck in this seat for twenty minutes. What’s the point of getting first class, just to wait for everyone else to get off?

  I duck, avoiding the curve of the luggage bin above me, and step into the aisle. A few women look at me a few times, but I pay them no mind. I’m not in the mood for flirting, talking, staring, or whatever else comes with meeting people. I haven’t felt this bad in years, and for the third time in my life, I’m scared. I don’t do well when people leave. My father is the only family I have left. If anything happens to him, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  A line starts to form behind me as I grab my suitcase and wait for the doors to open to allow me out. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, pooling in the collar of my light blue button-up shirt. I’m not even hot, but the stress, anxiety, and worry about my father has my heart racing, heating the under layer of my skin.

  Light beams into the cabin of the plane as the stewardess opens the door. The woman has long, dark brown hair, and she flashes white teeth under pink-painted lips.

  “Thank you for flying Delta. Have a good day,” she says cheerfully. I feel anything but.

  “You too,” I tell her as I step off the plane and walk down the narrow, black-carpeted hallway in the gate. My feet drag, and my eyes droop. Exhaustion hits me like a truck. Mentally, I’m drained. The entire flight I thought of my dad and Barbara, hoping they were okay and alive.

  I won’t know what to do if they aren’t.

  Obviously, I’ll have to plan a funeral with Everly. I’ve pushed all my bitter feelings for her to the side, given the situation. She and I are going to be spending a lot of time together because of this horrible instance. I’m not looking forward to it, any of it, but I’m not going to sit around aimlessly waiting for the Denver police to search for my dad while I sit in my skyscraper either.

  No, I have to do something to help. No way am I losing my father in the damn snow.

  Dragging my suitcase behind me, my Italian leather shoes click along the linoleum floor. People hustle by me. Persons of all shapes and colors try to avoid everyone, but with the airport being so packed, bumping shoulders seems to be inevitable.

  Baggage claim finally comes to view. I strain my neck, searching for the driver I hired to come get me. There is only one man holding a sign. He is older, but in shape, tall, grey and silver sprinkled his beard, and the sign reads, ‘Michaels’.

  “Hi, I’m assuming you are here for me,” I wave.

  “Mr. Rowan Michaels?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Wonderful,” he says, grabbing my bag. “Follow me, sir.” His British accent is unexpected but pleasant. I’ve always loved Britain. One day, I plan on retiring there, but until then, I’m going to admire and be jealous from afar.

  “Are you here for business or pleasure?” he asks.

  “I’m afraid neither. My father is missing, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, dear. I am so sorry to hear that. I hope he is okay. My name is Henry if you need anything, Mr. Michaels.” He opens the black, back door of the Mercedes sedan.

  “Thank you, Henry. And please, call me Rowan. Mr. Michaels is my father.” Out of habit, I press my palm in the middle of my stomach where my blazer is buttoned before I get into the car.

  The door slams shut. I finally have a moment to breathe and gather my nerves since I’m alone. I rub my palms over my slacks, wiping the sweat against the material. So much is running through my mind. I had to leave all of my duties on Gray, which I feel horrible about, but my dad and Barbara come first. And I bet Everly is a wreck right now.

  “Sir?”

  My eyes snap open from Henry’s voice. Huh, I don’t even remember closing them. “Yes?”

  “There is a minibar to your right. You look like you need a drink.”

  A buzz to my right grabs my attention, and the top to the minibar slides away, revealing two scotch glasses.

  “To the left is the fridge. You have your pick between gin, whiskey, vodka, and tequila. There are mixers there, too.”

  “Ah, Henry. You are my favorite person in the world right now.”

  “It isn’t a problem, sir. Enjoy. I’ll get you to the resort in about forty minutes. Sit back and relax.”

  He rolls up the privacy window, reading my mind that I want to be alone. I reach for the glass and dive into the ice bucket to grab a few cubes before making myself a gin and tonic. I fill the glass to the brim and down it in one swallow. I pour myself another, debating if I want to down this too, but I should probably keep a straight mind when I show up at the resort and not be completely hammered.

  Eh, I can get buzzed. I deserve that much. I chug it and shake my head as the gin tingles my tongue. Whoa, that one was strong.

  When I make the next one, I’m careful to watch how much Hendrick’s I put in compared to the tonic water. I stop pouring the gin, letting the last drop fall into the glass, and put the bottle back in the fridge.

  I spread my legs and lean my head back against the leather seat. I exhale, closing my eyes, and let the liquor do what it does best.

  Numb me.

  My eyes only see darkness, but I don’t need to see my drink as I bring the rim to my lips. The ice cubes push against my lips as I tilt the beverage, letting it flow over my tongue and down my throat. It’s cold, refreshing, and makes me relax for the first time in forty hours.

  I must have dozed a bit because when I snap my eyes open, we are already pulling into the resort, and the glass in my hand is sweating, dripping condensation onto my jeans. Yes, jeans. I haven’t worn jeans in four years. I forgot how much I loved them.

  Henry opens my door, and a gust of cold wind stings my cheeks. My skin pebbles under the thin sports coat. My jacket is in the suitcase. I didn’t even think to keep it out. I just packed what was in reach.

  The snow crunches under my shoes, and a light dusting of snow starts to fall. It’s beautiful.

  Henry opens the trunk, grabs my suitcase, and sits the wheels on the packed snow, which I assume is from all the cars driving over it. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Rowan. I hope you find your father and he is okay.” He holds out his age-spotted hand.

  “Thanks, Henry. You’ve been great.” I get my wallet out and tip him two hundred dollars after shaking his han
d.

  “Best wishes, Mr. Rowan.” He tilts the brim of his hat at me, and then climbs into the car. The tires spin for a moment before finding traction on the driveway.

  I sigh and turn to the Mountains Retreat. It’s breathtaking. The building is styled like a chalet home, with large windows in the front as it overlooks the mountains. Big trees are in the background, tall and looming behind the resort. I’m not sure what kind they are. I’m used to Douglas Firs, but these are even bigger.

  I watch as people come in and out of the entrance, smiling and laughing. Women have their hands looped through their lovers’ arms. Everyone is dressed in warm clothes. Big, oversized jackets and wool hats to keep their ears warm.

  My feet stay glued to the ground, as if the snow is cement, and I’m trapped. I can’t seem to get myself to move. If I move, if I walk, I don’t know what I’m going to be walking into. Maybe my dad is in his room now, and everything is fine.

  But I know that isn’t the case, no matter how much I want it to be. Hope is a fickle thing. And the smallest amount always seems to stay in my body. I guess that’s better than nothing.

  Thunder rolls in the sky. Thick, grey clouds come together, threatening thundersnow. It isn’t often it happens, but when thunder rumbles in snow clouds, that is a sign of how bad it is going to be. It usually means a state of emergency.

  Which means the hope for finding my dad and Barbara are dwindling.

  I’m not going to help find them from standing out here. I sigh and grab the handle of my suitcase. I don’t bother rolling it since there is so much snow on the ground. I pick it up like a briefcase and stride forward. I’m wearing the wrong shoes for this. I wobble a bit as the soles slide against the ice. My arms spread out to give myself balance, but it’s no use, and I slip. I probably look like a newborn baby giraffe trying to find his legs.

  I don’t do well with embarrassment, so all I can do is hope I don’t fall. I slip and slide my way to the automatic doors. When they open, I sigh a big breath of relief as the heat slams against my face, thawing my frozen cheeks.