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I have no idea what he’s thinking about, but I know where my mind has gone. This office says more about the relationship than any other room in this penthouse. It says that he spent time here, that this wasn’t just a place to sneak away for sex. There was an emotional connection, at least on some level, and it took him away from his family, dividing him between them.
Lincoln opens drawer after drawer, riffling through the contents. He finds a set of keys taped in the back of one of the drawers, which unlocks the filing cabinet. He pulls out several folders, so I round the desk to stand beside him, uncertain what he needs from me. He flips through phone bills, heating bills, laundry and dry cleaning bills, and receipts for takeout, fetish websites, expensive lingerie, and dress stores.
“He had an entire life I didn’t know about,” Lincoln says, voice low and rough.
“Do you think your mother knew?”
“I don’t know how she couldn’t.”
“What about Penelope?”
“If she knew, she would’ve told me. At least I think she would.” He spins in the chair and spreads his legs wide. Pulling me closer, he rests his forehead against my stomach and wraps his arms around me. There’s nothing sexual in his actions or mine. It’s comfort sought and given.
“The only way to find out is to ask.”
“I just want to understand why.”
“I know.”
He lifts his head, and my heart aches at the sadness in his eyes. At the what-ifs probably going through his head. How maybe things would’ve been different, how his life might’ve been different if this didn’t exist. It was exactly how I felt when I found the paperwork that told me the father I’d grown up believing was mine, wasn’t.
I’d gone through all the what-ifs. It all came down to one single truth: I would never know anything different because this was the path my parents took, and there was no way to produce a different outcome than the one that already was.
It didn’t stop me from wanting answers, though. So when Lincoln packs up the contents of the filing cabinet and spends most of the night poring through them, I’m right by his side.
And when we fall into bed in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted and bleary-eyed, no closer to an answer than we were before, I don’t deny him the escape he seeks in me. Because it brings us closer together in ways he can’t understand yet. And because I’m what he needs.* * *The next afternoon, I’m dragging. I have enough caffeine in my system to fuel a plane, and I’m so jittery, I don’t think I could take a steady picture if my life depended on it. So when Gwendolyn calls me into her office for a chat, I immediately break into nervous sweats.
“Have a seat.” She motions to the chair opposite her desk, face expressionless—which isn’t unusual, but today it’s putting me on edge.
I feel like I’ve been pulled into the principal’s office and I’m about to get handed a month of detention.
She steeples her fingers and tips her head while she inspects me for a few very long seconds. “I need your help with something important.”
“Of course.” I clasp my hands in my lap and cross my fingers it doesn’t have to do with Armstrong. It’s been nice not dealing with him as often.
“You and Lincoln are sleeping together, am I correct?” It’s less question and more statement, which is unnerving on so many levels. I thought we’d done an excellent job of remaining professional in the office and when people are watching us.
“I … uh … I don’t think that’s—”
She waves an impatient hand in the air. “I know my son, and how he’s behaving is atypical, which means one of two things, he’s either developed a problem with hard drugs or he’s getting laid regularly. Based on the way you’re blushing and sputtering, I’m going with option two.” She taps on the desk. “Now I may not like it, or approve, or think you’re a good choice for Lincoln, but I can’t control where he decides to unload his stress, and he could certainly do worse.”
I’m about to say something I’ll definitely regret, but she raises a hand to stop me.
“I’m being candid, Wren, something you should appreciate. Since you’re holding my son’s balls in your hand, I need your help with this situation.” She pushes a folder toward me. “Do you recognize this?”
I flip it open and try to keep my eyes from flaring. My tone is intentionally placid. “Should I?”
I think she may be narrowing her eyes at me, but I can’t be 100 percent on that. “I know Lincoln was at the penthouse in Lower Manhattan, and I know you were with him, so there’s no point in pretending.” She pauses for effect. It works. “He needs to stop looking into it.”
