“So?”
“No PDA,” I said lamely. “A kiss is public and affection.”
He leaned in, so close I could smell the hint of mint on his breath. “Nah.Thatwasn’t PDA,” he whispered before pressing his lips to mine. The kiss was soft, just like the one earlier. Tender. Still, it seared me, branded me in a way. I tried to fight the pull, tried to talk myself out of this, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop. “Thisis PDA,” he whispered, opening his mouth and sucking on my bottom lip until I groaned.
Now, this kiss…Oh,damn. He pulled me closer, nearly on top of his lap, and ravaged my mouth. It wasn’t just his lips or his tongue, or even the way he took control. It was his hands, the brush of his fingers over my collarbone. It was the press of his hard body against mine. It was his low groan.Shit, it was just him. He’d cast a spell on me, made me want to be his for the night. Or for all the nights. Just one taste, and I wanted it all. His touch, his kiss, his dick. Everything.
All too soon, though, he pulled away and placed another searing kiss to my forehead. “Thatwas PDA.” The low rasp of his voice made me dizzy with need. He picked up the menu and muttered something about chocolate brandy mousse.
While he talked about drinks and dessert, I thought about his mouth. That kiss. And the fact that I’d let him do it, that I wanted him to do it again, that I’d whimpered when he’d pulled back, like a fucking baby. It would be futile to argue with him or even try to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Indeed,” I admitted finally. “That was definitely PDA.” Anddamn him…I liked it. “I want the crème brûlée.”
Chapter Eight
The Truth
Preston
My thumb hovered over thesendbutton. I’d drafted the email to Parker Wells Jr. a few days ago, requesting a meeting to discuss what I’d learned. After several edits, I still wasn’t ready to send. The uncertainty kept me from opening the door to the possibility that Parker Wells Sr. was my biological father.
The DNA test was the easy part—only two possible outcomes. Yes, he was my father. Or no, my mother was just a liar. If he wasn’t, my life would go back to normal. But if he was…What effect will a bombshell like this have on my life? No matter what people said, the truth didn’t always set someone free. Sometimes the truth was just another form of prison, another life sentence of pain and misery.
“What are you doing here?”
Closing my email app, I set my phone down and looked at my mother. When I’d arrived early this morning, intent on hashing this out, she’d been asleep. Surprisingly, the house was clean. There was no evidence of hard partying, no empty liquor bottles. It reminded me of the times she’d come home from rehab with a “new lease on life,” determined to get back on track. Those good times had never lasted, but they were some of my favorite memories of her.
“You’re not hungover,” I said. “You haven’t been drinking.”
“No, I haven’t,” she admitted, flinging her legs off the side of the bed and lighting up a cigarette. “I’m taking a break.”
I lifted a brow. “Forever?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Nunya.”
Mom had tried to convince me I should be grateful that I had thefunmother. She often said that other kids had strict parents, mothers who monitored their every move and fathers who’d beat them. She’d even encouraged me to call her by her first name because she wanted to be my friend. Then, she’d get angry when I insisted on calling her Ma. I wanted someone to care about my homework and my grades. I wanted a mother who’d go to parent-teacher conferences—sober—and sports tournaments. I needed someone who concerned herself withmywellbeing, my failures, my successes. I just needed her to be my mother.
I stood and paced the floor slowly. The faint creek of the wood beneath my feet was the only sound as I pondered my approach. I felt her eyes on me, watching me. Waiting. Finally, I turned to her. “You said something to me the last time I was here.”
She met my gaze unflinchingly. “I told you your father wasn’t your father.”
I studied her face, the hard line of her mouth and her frosty glare. Times like this, I wondered if she’d ever loved me, because she damn sure didn’t act like she even liked me. “Is it true? Was Hayes my father?”
“Did he raise you?” she asked.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Did he take you to baseball practice, teach you how to ride a bike?”
I clenched my teeth, massaging the back of my neck. She ticked off more activities—the time Hayes took me to the zoo, and when he’d chaperoned my one and only cub scout camp. The more she talked, the angrier I got. “Enough,” I snapped.
Mom took a puff of her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “It doesn’t matter who your father is. Hayes was the man who was there for you.”
“Right. He showed up every other weekend,” I muttered dryly, “and sometimes at Christmas or Father’s Day—when you would let him.” I didn’t want to get into how she’d micromanaged my relationship with him from the moment they’d separated. To steer this conversation back to the matter at hand, I asked, “Who is my father? Just answer the damn question.”
“Your father is who I say your father is.”
“Was Parker Wells Sr. my father?”
