Accidental Secrets: A totally gripping, steamy, sexy contemporary romance (Accidental Love Book 3)

by Dana Mason

  I just can’t fully forgive my parents until they make an effort to apologize to her. They were wrong for what they did. They blasted her to the media as the reason for my brother’s alcoholism. They even actively worked against her, and with the dance company who dropped her after the accident. Those aren’t easy actions to forgive.

  After getting everything loaded, I hop into the driver’s seat and thank God we only have a few more weeks until our second location is open. It feels good. I feel good about life in general. Work is great, my family is finally getting back to normal, and everything is falling into place for me.

  Just as I’m about to start the engine, my phone pings with a new email.

  To: mmurphy@crossfitforlife.com

  From: shouldbemurphy@email.com

  Subject: RE: A Secret

  I’m not ready to share my mom’s name yet, but I will soon.

  “What the fuck?” Persistent little shit. I hit reply and type out:

  Sounds like you’re full of shit. Don’t email me again.

  I go back and change shit to it, just in case this is some confused kid, then hit send and get on the road. I don’t have time for this nonsense. But even as I try to put it out of my mind, I can’t help feeling unsettled. As much as I want to believe it’s a prank, what if it isn’t?

  Two

  Raegan

  I take several deep breaths, trying not to panic. I wasn’t expecting him to ask my mom’s name. God, Raegan, you’re so stupid. Of course, he’s going to ask her name. It’s so obvious. Why would he believe some random email without proof, and what was I expecting him to say? Jeez—at this point he probably thinks he’s being blackmailed or something stupid like that. I’m not trying to make him defensive… The whole point of this was to make him ask questions about me, to look for me.

  I toss my phone on the couch and look around Uncle Mitch’s living room helplessly. I’ve been researching Mike but I need something better. How am I going to get that kind of information out of my mom? I slide her yearbook out from my backpack and flip through it again. I look at every picture of every group, club, and team, but I need something else. Anyone can have the information in this book. I need something more personal.

  I get up off the couch and walk down the hall and poke my head in my uncle’s office. “Hey, Uncle Mitch.”

  “Hey, hey, little Rae.” He grins up at me over the rim of his reading glasses. His white hair is standing on end as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing, but do you mind if I go play on the pool table in the garage?”

  “Oh, hon, I can’t play with you right now, can you wait a little while?”

  “Yeah, cool, but can I go practice while I’m waiting?”

  “Sure, sure, go ahead. Just give me about half an hour to finish this blog post.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Mitch.” I rush away and head to the garage. Mitch is my grandma’s brother, so technically, he’s my great-uncle, but he was also my grandpa’s best friend before Gramps died.

  Before Uncle Mitch retired, he wrote for prominent newspapers like The New York Times, the Washington Post, and the San Francisco Chronicle. Now he runs a popular blog about the current state of affairs in California. And when I say all that, what I really mean is he runs a blog that criticizes the state government. He doesn’t usually have anything good to say. I think that’s why he was such good friends with my grandpa. Gramps was a politician before he died… even the Mayor of Sacramento for a long time, before being elected to the State Assembly. They could sit around for hours and argue about politics.

  My grandma owns this house, it was where my gramps lived before he died. Now my uncle lives here to take care of the place. I stay here after school so I don’t have to be home alone. I’m too old for the after-school programs, and I’m glad about that.

  Uncle Mitch pretty much leaves me alone, it’s his housekeeper Annie who has the eagle eyes. I can’t get anything past that woman. Thankfully, she’s not here today or I’d never be able to do what I’m planning.

  Once I’m in the garage, and the bright fluorescent lights are glaring down on me, I head over to the third garage stall, where he keeps his golf cart. This house is near the golf course and ‘The Club’ as my uncle calls it. His usual mode of transportation in the area is this little golf cart. Sometimes he lets me drive it too. The space behind the golf cart is where my mom keeps some of her old things. When my grandpa lived here, my mom and I lived in the guesthouse out back. These boxes are full of the stuff she left behind when we moved. Our house is pretty small, and this place is huge, so she just stores this stuff here. You’d think she’d get rid of it, but lucky for me, she never throws anything away. I’ve seen her in here, searching through the boxes a few times. I’m hoping I can find some proof about my father.

  My stomach flips a little when I think about Mike Murphy. I know he’s my dad, but I just can’t confirm it for sure. In the past, when I’ve asked my mom about my father, she wouldn’t talk about him, but I didn’t want to push too hard. I get the feeling she was hurt pretty badly and I don’t want to upset her, but now I think it’s time she told me more. Especially if I can’t get Mike to take the emails seriously.

  I deserve to know who my dad is. Mike deserves to know he has a daughter. I thought if I sent him a few cryptic emails, he’d start doing his own research. I wish I knew what happened between them all those years ago. I wish I knew why he isn’t in our lives. Why he doesn’t seem to know I exist.

  Occasionally my mom will lower her guard and tell me something about my father, but not often and she never tells me anything concrete—nothing I could use to prove it’s Mike. The last time I asked her about him, she completely avoided the subject. From what I’ve gathered, she hasn’t seen him since before I was born. Lots of things can happen in that time.

  I scan the boxes in a grid pattern so I don’t miss any. Most of the boxes are labeled by date so it doesn’t take long to find a couple labeled with the years she was in high school. I pull two from the stack then restack everything so nobody can tell they’ve been moved.

  I squat on the floor next to them and slap my hands together to get the dust off me. Then I lift the first lid with bated breath. I can’t wait to see what’s inside. Once the top is off, I frown at the folded baby clothes inside. Little dresses that make my eyes roll. Pathetic.

  I know this is my grandma’s doing. Grandma wanted a prim and proper granddaughter, but she ended up with me instead. I laugh at that because I’m not a girly girl. I’m not even sure Grandma thinks girls should wear pants, she’s that backwards. Most of my family is like that, but thankfully, my mom isn’t. Grandma is a complete prude, though. I can see why Mom avoids her so much. I search the box for anything else, but it’s mostly clothes.

  I put the lid back on it and lift it to add it back to the pile. Then I pop open the next box. There’s an old cheerleader uniform, a couple of photo albums, some old school work… why would she keep that? Then I see it. A journal. I grab it and put it aside. Then I find a zipper makeup bag full of little folded-up pieces of paper. What are these? It looks like sad attempts at origami. I unfold one, and my eyes widen. Score! They’re notes from friends. I take the entire pouch out and then lift out one of the photo albums. I flip through and snicker at what life must have been like before digital cameras… before the instant gratification of taking a picture and having it available on your phone.

  When I come across a series of photos of my mom with a guy, I stare hard at them. After seeing Mike’s Facebook profile, I know it’s him, but I can see the difference between then and now. He’s younger and not so big in the pictures. He has more of a baby face, and his brown eyes seem like he’s laughing at something. His eyes… they’re like mine. I can’t pretend they’re not and I’m not just trying to get my hopes up. He definitely looks like me. When I come across an empty spot, I know that’s where the original photo is from.

  A w
eek ago, I found a photo in my mom’s desk drawer of this guy. It was dated the summer before I was born and it said Michael Murphy on the back. Anyone who can do simple math can calculate nine months. I was born in April, but I was three weeks early, so I know my mom got pregnant in July or August. This photo is what prompted me to search for Mike. I started with my mom’s old high school yearbook, which was stored on the bookcase in her home office. Mike was a year ahead of my mom in school. So, if she was seventeen when I was born, he must have been eighteen, or close to it.

  I pull a few more of the pictures out and then replace the album before I put the lid back on the box and return it to the stack.

  My heart is pounding so fast I feel like it might explode. I grab the notes and the journal and quickly carry them into the house to hide them in my backpack.

  I take a breath and try to rest my hammering heart. Just as I start to relax, I hear the front door open then my mom’s heels on the tiles. A moment later, she’s in front of me. I know she can’t possibly know what I did, but I still have to fight the sense of guilt as she smiles at me.

  Her smile fades, and she says, “What are you up to?”

  I try to act offended. “Why do you always think I’m up to something? I’m just sitting here, minding my own business.”

  One side of her mouth twists up as she stares at me. “Really? Just sitting here? And why is that?”

  “I was waiting for Uncle Mitch to play pool with me.”

  Thankfully, my uncle picks that time to come into the living room, rubbing his hands together. “So, did you practice? Ready for me to beat you?”

  I lift a brow and look over at my mom. “See.”

  “Hey, Uncle Mitch. What are you up to?”

  She walks over and kisses his cheek. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and says, “I wrote a post about the new gas tax. People just don’t get it. The tax is a good thing. We need the money to fix infrastructure.”

  My mom tilts her head in irritation. She’s several inches shorter than Uncle Mitch, but he’s at least six feet tall. My mom is super pretty, with dark hair and thick, long black eyelashes that frame her sea-blue eyes. I always wished I had her eyes until I saw a picture of Michael Murphy. Now I’m glad I have something of his.

  Mom’s super-hot for a mom too. She’s always making cracks about looking like a soccer mom, but I see men stare at her all the time. She has a perfect hourglass figure, which means all her clothes look good on her. I glance down at my small chest and I’m kind of glad they’re small. It’s hard to play sports with big breasts. I have friends who are already in C cups.

  “Well, I’m not too pleased with the higher gas prices either,” Mom says. “So I understand the frustration.”

  “Oh, now, Rachel, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I know you don’t understand much about things like infrastructure, but we’ll sort it out for you.”

  I watch as my mom’s face turns red, then she sort of drifts out from underneath Uncle Mitch’s arm and says to me, “Are you ready to go?”

  My mom and uncle don’t always agree on politics, but more than anything, she hates when he mansplains things to her. She’s not stupid, not at all. My mom is one of the smartest people I know, she’s just too quiet, and she doesn’t really stand up for herself. It bugs me that she doesn’t, but when I think about some of the things her parents have said to her, it’s no wonder she picks her battles so carefully. Some things aren’t worth the aggravation. “Yep, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  “Hey hey, Rae, we’ll get that game of pool in tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Sounds good.” I give him a big hug before following my mom out the front door.

  Once we’re settled in the car, she starts in on her usual questions about school, Uncle Mitch, and how I spent my afternoon. I watch her as she talks and I wonder if this conversation ever bores her like it bores me. I feel like we never have real conversations. At thirteen, she still considers me a child. She has no idea how wrong she is.

  “Mom, what’s my dad’s name?”

  Her head whips around, her blue eyes wide. Then she turns back to look at the road. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because I want to know who my father is. I think it’s time.” I don’t understand what’s so unreasonable about wanting to know about the man who shares my DNA. When she doesn’t respond, I try again. “Seriously. I want to know, and you don’t have a good reason for not telling me.”

  She tucks a strand of inky black hair behind her ear and says, “Maybe I do, and I’m just not sharing it with you.”

  “Then you should at least tell me what that reason is.”

  “Raegan, I’m not sure this is something you’re ready for.”

  “No, you mean, you’re not ready for it. Because if you told me, I might want to spend time with him and you’d have to share me with someone other than Uncle Mitch.”

  “You seem so sure this man will want to be a dad.” She glances at me and says, “How do you know I’m not trying to protect you from getting hurt—protecting you from rejection?”

  “So, it’s true that he doesn’t know about me.”

  Her head shakes instinctively. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then he does know about me.”

  “I didn’t say that, either.”

  “Mom! Say something. It’s time, and besides, I can handle it, and I want to know.” I shrug and say, “What do you think? That I’m some fragile person who can’t handle bad stuff? I can, Mom, you have to give me a chance.”

  “Raegan…”

  “I don’t need you to protect me. If he rejects me, we’ll deal with that.”

  She throws her hand up, shaking her head. “Spoken like someone who’s never been rejected. Spoken like someone who’s never dealt with heartache—who’s been given everything in life and never needed or wanted for anything.”

  “But I have, Mom!” I didn’t mean to shout at her, but she acts like it’s so easy to not have a dad. As if dads don’t matter. “I’ve lived my entire life needing and wanting a father. That’s a pretty big need.”

  I see the hurt on her face, and I feel bad about it, but not bad enough to stop pushing her. “I’m not saying you’re not good enough. Don’t go all sappy and guilt-trippy on me. This isn’t about you. I love you, Mom, but what if I have siblings? Besides that, I deserve to know where I come from.”

  “You come from me, Raegan. I’m the one who gave you life. I’m the one who changed your diapers and lost sleep for years and goes to every one of your school events.”

  “Mom, I’ll ask Uncle Mitch if you don’t tell me.”

  She laughs at this. “Even if Mitch knew, he wouldn’t tell you, I promise.”

  “Just tell me. I want to know who my dad is. Tell me now, Mom!”

  “I’m not telling you anything when you speak to me like that. You need to remember who you’re talking to.”

  “I’m talking to the woman who won’t let me have a dad. The same woman who’s been lying about me for fourteen years.”

  “Is that what you think?” She waves a hand around and says, “You think this is something I don’t want you to have? Like I’m purposely depriving you of having a father. Is that really who I am to you?”

  “I don’t have a choice. That’s all I can think when you won’t even have a conversation with me about it.”

  “Interesting.” Her eyebrows raise when she says, “You want to have this all-important adult conversation, but you’re acting like a child with all your demands and shouting.” She points a finger in my direction. “You know, Rae, my day was bad enough without having to come home and take abuse from you.”

  “I’ll leave you alone if you just tell me his name.”

  “Right, give you his name so you can jump on the internet and start searching for him without considering the consequences.”

  “But I thought I was some dumb thirteen-year-old who couldn’t take it.”

  “You and I both know wh
at you’re capable of. And just because you know your way around a computer doesn’t mean you’re ready to take on real-life problems. Not to mention, why should I tell you anything when you’re acting so nasty to me?”

  “You can’t protect me forever.” I put my earbuds in and ignore everything she says after that. I don’t understand why she won’t tell me. Is she trying to protect me, or is she just trying to protect herself?

  Three

  Rachel

  Once we’re done eating, Raegan retreats to her room, and I’m almost relieved. I sit down at the table with a large glass of wine and rest my head in my hands. Jesus, what am I going to do with her? She’s so curious about everything. Why this sudden interest in knowing her father’s name? Just thinking about him makes my stomach somersault. It’s been years, and I still remember every moment I spent with him. He was so different from the other guys in school. So thoughtful about everything. So on task and so sure of what he wanted. I was never like that. I never knew what I wanted to do until I got my first position at The Sutter… and then it was a letdown to my parents. To hear my mom say the word hospitality, you’d think it was a dirty word. I sigh and lift my head to sip my wine.

  Not that I care about my parents’ approval. My dad went to his grave disappointed in me. Even though he said he was proud of me, a daughter knows. My mother has never tried to hide her disappointment or her discontent at my lack of scholarly achievement. She and I don’t have the same opinions about success. If I can’t manage in a career of her choice, I should find a husband—excuse me—a suitable husband, whatever the hell that is. But that’s ridiculous. My ambitions circled more around being a suitable and loving parent to Raegan. Especially since I was her only parent, thanks to my parents.

  Besides, I love my job. I love what I do, even though it’s never been good enough for my mother. I’ve never had an interest in politics or academia. I want to have my own life. I want a job that makes me happy, and my daughter.