by Tawna Fenske
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She looks up from her coffee, and there’s that smile again, like a spear of sunshine to my heart. “I feel amazing,” she says. “Last night was—it was so—God, listen to me.” She laughs. “It was so fantastic I can’t even find words.”
“I’m glad.” Not that she’s wordless, but that it was even half as amazing for her as it was for me. “I loved it, too.”
She’s still smiling as she takes a sip of coffee, but that stiffness is still there. It’s like she’s curling in on herself even though she’s leaned against me.
“I don’t regret it at all,” she says, and my heart balls up into wad of wet tissue paper.
I hold my breath, waiting for the but. I know there’s a but; I can see it in her eyes.
“But?” I prompt, needing to rip off the damn Band-Aid.
“No, it’s not like that.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. When she drops her hand, it comes to rest on my thigh. “I just—I have a history of getting too serious about someone before we’ve really opened up to each other. Spilled our guts or whatever. You know what I mean?”
My breath stalls in my chest. Has she guessed my secret? Did she notice last night how Sean and James and Jonathan and even Bree look so much alike, while I—
“I want to tell you something, okay?” Her words come out fast, like she’s ripping off her own Band-Aid. “It’s—kind of a big deal. And I’m afraid you’re going to think less of me, so I just need to get it out there and—”
“Chelsea, no.” I curl my fingers around hers. “It doesn’t matter what it is. I promise I won’t think less of you.”
The look she gives me is hopeful, and I almost feel bad about the relief that’s coursing through me. I’m off the hook for spilling my secrets if she’s got one she needs to get off her chest.
“You can’t really promise that,” she says. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“What, you’re a member of a satanic cult?” I shrug. “I’m sure they’re nice people.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Not quite.”
“You’re a serial killer?” I picture Chelsea with a ski mask and a machete and have to struggle to keep a straight face. “I’m sure you only kill people who deserve it.”
Her smile is more relaxed now, and I’m grateful she’s easing up. “What, like Dexter?”
“Sure.” I take a sip of coffee. “I might draw the line if you admit to slaughtering bunnies for sport, but other than that, you can tell me anything.”
Her smile wobbles a little as she takes a deep breath. “It’s about Libby’s father,” she says. “Biological father.”
And judging by her expression, this is not a feel-good story. I lace my fingers through hers, channeling as much strength as possible into the gesture. “Okay.”
She looks down into her coffee and a fist of panic grabs hold of my chest. She’s still in love with him. They’re secretly married. He’s actually her brother.
So many worst-case scenarios are racing through my brain that I almost miss the next thing she says.
“Walter Grassnab. Senator Grassnab.” Her gaze lifts to mine, and the vulnerability there makes my chest ache. “That’s Libby’s dad.”
“Motherfucker.”
She starts to draw her hand back, stung by what must sound like judgement. “That’s not how I meant it,” I insist, tightening my hold on her. “Him. Bree made me read his bio so we’re all up to speed for this event. He’s been married for twenty-five years, so—”
“That makes me an adulteress.” The sound that escapes her is more of a shuddery little sob than a laugh, and she shakes her head. “Or an idiot. Probably both.”
“You’re neither,” I insist, wishing she’d stop beating herself up. “Tell me the rest.”
She takes a deep breath, staring down into her coffee like the answers are somewhere at the bottom. Her eyes are glittery when she meets mine again. “We met at a charity thing,” she says. “He wasn’t a senator then. Just a county commissioner, and I was in charge of pastries for the event. He came over to say he liked my cupcakes, and we started talking. I didn’t have a clue who he was.”
“I couldn’t name any county commissioners, either,” I offer. “Don’t feel bad.”
But it’s clear she’s feeling bad, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop that. All I can do is listen and support, so I shut my trap and squeeze her hand.
“He was actually very sweet.” She says it like that’s a bad thing. “Charming and funny and I was still pretty raw from the breakup with Charlie.” She takes a shaky breath and looks down into her mug again. “I fell right into bed with him like an idiot. I had no idea he was married. When he told me afterward, he swore they were getting divorced. Like a dummy, I believed him.”
The pain in her voice makes my chest ache. I wonder which she hates more—what happened, or what she thinks it says about her.
“It wasn’t your fault, Chelsea.” My voice makes her look up again, and I infuse it with every ounce of certainty I can. “He took advantage.”
“I was a grownup,” she says. “And I should have known better. For crying out loud, it’s the oldest cliché in the book. Older, married man beds naïve, younger woman; forgets to mention a wife; swears it’s over with her; etcetera etcetera. God.”
The pain in Chelsea’s eyes almost undoes me. If I could drive to the Senator’s house right now and punch him in the nose, I’d do it. What a fucking asshole.
“So, he’s Libby’s father,” I say.
She winces. “Biologically speaking, yes. Really more of a sperm donor.”
For a second, I consider telling her about my father. It’s the opposite story in some ways, a guy who didn’t actually sire me but took credit anyway. I imagine what that would feel like, putting it out there. I’ve never told anyone in my life, never wanted to.
I don’t want to now.
Besides, this is her story. Her moment.
“I didn’t name him on the birth certificate,” she says, answering a question I didn’t think to ask. “By the time I realized he had all these huge political ambitions, I wanted to keep Libby as far away from that as I could. The last thing I’d want for her is to be trotted out as some slimy politician’s dirty little secret.”
Rage boils in the center of my chest, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. The idea that someone—anyone—could see Libby that way has me itching to punch a hole in the wall. And the idea that this creep of a senator could treat Chelsea that way—
“Fucking asshole,” I growl.
She shakes her head and looks down again. “He doesn’t even know about her,” she says softly. “He broke things off before he knew I was pregnant. Before I knew.”
Holy shit.
“He doesn’t deserve her,” I growl. “A guy who’d screw around on his wife and kids—that’s not someone you want in her life anyway.”
“Right,” she says, brushing the hair from her eyes. “She’s better off not being raised by him.”
Is that why my mother never married Cort Bracelyn? She knew that deep down, he could only ever be a subpar father. Oh, he tried, but his heart wasn’t in it, even though mine was.
“Mark?” Chelsea’s voice is wary. “What are you thinking?”
Now. This is when I should tell her. Open up to her the way other guys haven’t.
But I chicken out.
If I say it out loud, it’s real, and I’m not ready for it to be real.
“Wait,” I say as another thought occurs to me. “You’re sure Senator Assgrab doesn’t know about Libby?”
“How would he?” she asks. “We never saw each other again. Never spoke, and we don’t exactly run in the same circles.”
That’s when I see it. The flicker of doubt in her eyes. She’s saying one thing, but there’s a thread of uncertainty wiggling through her words.
This is what she’s been holding back.
“I think w
e should tell Austin,” I say slowly. “And so do you.”
My words hang there between us, suspended in the itchy tension.
Slowly, she nods. “Maybe.” She releases a slow breath that’s more resignation than relief. “It seemed like everything pointed to Charlie. Like maybe there was no need to say anything.”
“You think it’s possible.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I give her a chance to correct me. “That he found out about Libby or—?”
I trail off there because it seems like a dick move to say, “the father of your child has been fucking up your life.” The words are implied, aren’t they?
She considers it for a moment, then shakes her head. “I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t think he knows, and I don’t think—” she laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter laugh. “After we split, he blocked me from all his social media. I heard he even changed his phone number. I’m not kidding when I say we’ve had zero contact.”
I consider the kinds of crap Chelsea’s tormentor has been pulling. Vandalism. Breaking and entering. “Just a guess, but Senator Assgrab doesn’t seem like the type of guy to get his hands dirty.”
“He’s not,” she says. “Not at all. Besides, what would he have to gain?”
Good point. She’s kept her mouth shut for seven years, so why would he start dicking her around now? I study her face. Her words have me convinced, but there’s a furrow between her brows that tells me she’s hearing the same voice I am. That niggling little “what if” in the back of her brain.
“Austin needs to know,” I say again. “All of it. He needs all the facts to investigate.”
Her jaw clenches, and for a second, I think she’s going to argue. That I’ll have to choose between keeping my trap shut and keeping her safe. That’s assuming Senator Assgrab really has anything to do with this, and who the hell knows if that’s true?
She’s quiet for so long I think I’ve lost her. “I’ve spent seven years keeping this secret,” she says so softly I almost don’t catch all the words. “There’s always been gossip in town about who Lib’s father is. For a while, there was even a rumor she was Austin’s.”
I wonder if Bree ever heard that. Or Austin.
“Putting ‘father unknown’ on that birth certificate made me feel like a horrible person,” she admits. “Like who the hell doesn’t know the father of her own child?”
There. This is my opening. My chance to come clean to Chelsea, to tell her my biggest secret. To open up the way I know I ought to if we’re going to get anywhere together.
But I answer like a big, fat, fucking chicken. “You’re not a horrible person,” I tell her. “You’re the kindest, smartest, most generous person I’ve ever met, and you did what you had to do to protect your daughter.”
Tears flood her eyes, but she doesn’t let any of them spill. She leans into me, her hair tickling my bare chest. I slip my arm around her, pulling her close enough so I can breathe in the scent of her skin. My whole life, I’ve never felt this close to another person.
There’s plenty of time to tell her my own secrets, to open up the way she’s been asking.
“It’s going to be okay,” I murmur as I stroke her hair. “Let’s call Austin.”
By the time Chelsea’s done spilling her guts at the police station, I don’t know who I admire more: Her for unflinchingly telling her cop ex about the married man she slept with, or Austin for not being a dick about it.
I’m guessing plenty of cops would get pissy with her for not coming forward sooner, but Austin just sits with his hands folded on his desk and nods like he’s been expecting her to drop by.
“Thank you for telling me this,” Austin says. “I promise you I’ll do as much as I can to safeguard your secret.”
“Libby’s secret,” I add, in case he didn’t get the full point of why she did this.
“Libby’s secret,” Austin says, looking at me for a few beats longer than comfortable. “You’re right, a child’s paternity is something intensely personal to families, but no one more than that child.”
Pretty sure I’m imagining the way he looked right at me when he said that. I hope I am, anyway. Bree’s complained about Austin’s mind-reading abilities, and right now, I don’t doubt it.
But he turns his attention back to Chelsea and addresses her in what Bree calls his Officer Velvet Voice tone. “When was the last time you had contact with Senator Grassnab?” he asks.
“Seven years ago on January eighteenth,” she says. “I remember because he came by to tell me we couldn’t see each other anymore. That he was working things out with his wife. And it was exactly one week later that I realized my period was late, so I went and bought a test.”
He doesn’t flinch at her candor, which makes me like him more. And her, for putting it all out there like this. She’s sitting up straight in her chair, and the only sign she’s uncomfortable is the tenseness of her fingers wrapped in mine.
I give her hand a squeeze and clear my throat. “Is the men’s room down the hall?”
I know damn well where the men’s room is, and I’m guessing Austin knows I know. “Yeah,” he says, not missing a beat. “Fourth door on the left.”
“Thanks.” I squeeze Chelsea’s hand again, then let go. “I’ll be right back.”
I feel their eyes on me as I go, but no one says anything. As the door swings shut behind me, the murmur of voices starts up again. I can’t make out the words, and I don’t try to. Just a hunch, but I’m guessing there’s some personal shit Austin needs to ask her. Things she might be uncomfortable sharing in front of a guy she’s just started dating. If it means better odds of solving this crime, I’ll give them all the privacy they need.
Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I notice I missed a call from Bree. A flutter of worry wiggles behind my breastbone, and I push my way through the exit at the end of the corridor. We left Bree in charge of Libby, and even though I know my sister’s good with kids, my chest knots with worry as I dial her number.
She answers on the first ring. “Is your rabbit supposed to eat cereal?”
“Uh, hello to you, too.”
Libby’s voice rings out in the background, singing Alice the Camel at full volume. The knot releases in my chest as my sister keeps talking.
“I’m calling because Libby found your stash of disgusting sugar cereal and asked to have some,” she says. “I was going through the boxes trying to figure out what’s least unhealthy and she pulled out the Trix and said she needed to feed Long Long Peter. Are you seriously feeding this crap to your rabbit?”
“Silly rabbit,” I say at the same time I hear Libby chant the exact same words in the background. “Trix are for kids.”
Bree goes silent. “Okay, that was freaky.”
“Have you seriously never heard that television commercial?” I know my sibs went to elite boarding schools and spent weekends doing English riding lessons and tennis instead of parked in front of the television watching cartoons, but sometimes it’s like we grew up on different planets.
“So I’ll take that as an ixnay on pouring a bowl of cereal for the rabbit,” Bree says. “That was my guess, but I figured I’d better check it with the authorities.”
The fact that she’s deemed me an authority on children freaks me out a little, but I don’t let on. “Rabbit chow is in the cupboard beside the sink.”
“Got it,” she says. “Are things going okay?”
It’s killing her not to pry. For someone who loves meddling in other people’s lives as much as Bree does, it’s gotta be rough living with a cop. But she rushed right over when we called this morning and asked her to stay with Libby. She only asked the bare minimum of questions, even though it had to drive her nuts.
“You’re coming to the meeting tomorrow night, right?” she asks.
“For fuck’s sake.”
“That’s a yes?”
I scrub my hand over my beard. “Why do we have so many damn meetings?”
“We’re the owners of a multi-million-dollar resort that’s just getting off the ground,” she points out. “Call me crazy, but I think we should get together and talk about it occasionally.”
I consider pointing out that it’s my birthday and that the last thing I want is to be stuck in a damn boardroom. But birthdays aren’t a big deal to me. A shrink would probably spout some bullshit story about the trauma associated with childhood birthday parties, or maybe with the whole “candles lit the house on fire” thing, but I’d rather not dwell on that. Frankly, my idea of a perfect birthday is pizza and cake with Chelsea and Libby and not a single damn candle to blow out.
“Fine,” I mutter, crossing my fingers it’s a fast meeting and I can still pull off the pizza and cake thing. “Thanks again for watching Libby.”
“Thanks for giving me a chance to play auntie,” she says. “For the record, I’m totally on board if you want to make it an official thing.”
“What, like being her nanny?”
“You’re such an idiot sometimes.” At least she says it with affection. “You’d make a good stepdad, you know. Husband, too, for that matter.”
Jesus. “Because I had such great role models for that?”
“Some people get the benefit of learning from positive examples,” she says. “But most of us get to learn from screwups—ours or someone else’s. Doesn’t matter much how you get there, as long as you learn.”
“Is this psychology session almost over?”
Being a jackass doesn’t make the lump in my throat go away, but Bree’s laughter does. “I love you, dumbass.”
She hangs up before I can reply.
Chapter 15
CHELSEA
I’m betting Austin knows as well as I do that Mark’s bathroom run was just a cover for giving us some privacy. It was a sweet gesture, though there’s really not much I wouldn’t say in front of Mark. Not now, anyway, and I feel a tingly tug in my chest at the thought of being this close to another person. This hasn’t happened in—well, forever.