Right now, that salmon isme.
Every summer I’d visit, he was the glorified babysitter, the keeper I never asked for, appointed to make sure I didn’t get in trouble. I know Ethan hated him too, but I’d like to think I had it worse.
My older cousins called him Holden Hardass for a reason.
Sure, looking back, I can appreciate he was just trying to do the right thing, keeping the grandkids out of trouble. And yes, if I was left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have always made good choices.
At the time, I hated him for it.
He made it clear he thought chasing me was beneath him. Policing a bratty teenage girl was clearly beneath his pay grade, so he made sure I’d sit in my room and never cause any trouble if Gramps wanted me to stay at home.
Obviously, that wasn’t what I wanted.
It’s safe to say we didn’t get along.
I’ll never understand how my grandfather kept him employed for so many years or what he saw in this workhorse besides raw, intimidating muscle. Or why he’s clearly still around now, I guess.
There’s no reality where Holden being here means anything good.
Then comes the next surprise.
A small girl follows him into the room, her head cocked as she looks around, taking in the mansion. She can’t be older than ten, I bet.
She has his dark hair and firm brows. Nice height and a bone structure a lot of folks would kill for.
Some people just win the genetic lottery.
It’s obvious from the similarities between them that this girl in her pink kitty cat shirt and jeans must be his daughter.
Holden’s daughter.
Holy crap.
My brain stutters, probably out loud.
Holden’s scowl deepens, like he can see my brain locking up.
“Sorry we’re running late,” he rumbles. “Kit had to drop off a library book.”
I think my jaw drops. Hits the ground. Probably shatters.
I stare into his craggy, unyielding face.
“You’rea dad?” I blurt. “You?”
This girl isn’t that little, which means she existed when I’d visit as a kid.
How did he never mention her? I mean, not that I ever bothered to ask about his stuffy, boring life.
He folds his arms. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t notice the way his muscles bulge under his clinging sweater, which looks like it’s on the verge of tearing.
“Hello to you too, brat. Surprised?”
Unfortunately.
Because for him to have a daughter, it means some crazy woman had to get past his repulsive accountant-meets-gym-rat personality enough to want to sleep with him.
To bear his child.
