Page 67 of The Unexpected

Thomas sets down his pen, folding his hands. For a moment, he just studies me, as if he’s memorizing the lines in my forehead, the way my chin wobbles when I’m about to lose it. “Brenda called me. We don’t talk regularly, but we do talk on occasion, and she was worried about her brother. She said he needed a hand, and she’d heard good things about Trinity. I did what anyone would do: made a call.” He shrugs, like it’s the smallest thing in the world. “It’s not uncommon.”

The clock ticks louder now. A click for every second of silence.

I open my mouth, then close it. “You could have told us.”

He looks at me—at all of us, really—and sighs. “Nobody wants to be a nepo baby these days, Stella. It’s toxic. And nobody wants to hire one, either, so I thought it best if it went unsaid. For Lachlan’s sake as much as mine.” His gaze shifts to the pastor, and it’s not unkind. “I knew you’d succeed, O’Toole. That’s why I put your name forward.”

The blond man stiffens. “Thanks,” he says, and it’s a verdict, not a gratitude. “But you didn’t have to,” he adds, jaw working.

Thomas shakes his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “You’re right, but the church needed someone, and you were a reasonable fit. Why not you?” He leans back, as if daring someone to challenge his logic. “I didn’t do anything but make sure your resume was seen by the right people.”

Another silence. The scotch glass glints in the low light as Thomas rotates it, the slow arc of liquid sticking to the side.

I stare at the glass, wondering if he’s even tasted it.

The silence is oppressive now, thick with the smell of old leather, paper, and the faint, medicinal burn of scotch. I can see every detail in the room: the way the lamplight glances off the beveled edge of the desk, the deep gouge in the wood where Thomas once slammed the phone down in a rage, the way Hunter’s knee bounces even though his face is completely still.

But my father’s eyes come back to me, and the look is different now—softer, maybe, or just tired. “You’re not here about Lachlan,” he says. “Or not just about him.”

My face goes hot, the blush racing from my chest to the roots of my hair. Hunter glances over at me, and I feel the weight of his gaze as if it’s a hand on the nape of my neck.

My voice is shaky, but I get the words out. “Do you know? About us, I mean?” I can’t bring myself to look at my dad, so I stare at the desktop, at the neat piles of legal pads and the antique letter opener shaped like a dagger.

Thomas is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “Andie asked me if I’d noticed. Weeks ago.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it, just a wry resignation. “She said the way you two look at each other, it’s like watching a meet-cute in slow motion, but with a lot more steam. She was mostly curious if I minded.”

Hunter crosses his arms, the move defensive, but his face doesn’t twitch. “And do you?” His voice is flat, no bravado.

Thomas takes a sip of his scotch, then sets it down so gently you barely hear the glass touch wood. “Not really. I’ve done worse in my life. So have you.”

Hunter gives a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. I suppose so.”

My hands are fists at my sides. I take a step forward, voice loud again: “Do you think I’m a slut, then? For sleeping with my two step-uncles—one on each side of the fucking family?”

The sentence shatters the air, a stone through stained glass. Even Lachlan flinches.

My father’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers turn the scotch glass, slow and deliberate. For a long beat, all you can hear is the tick of the clock, the thump of my heart in my ears, and the soft, shaky inhale as I wait for him to answer.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t look away. “No. I don’t think you’re a slut, Stella. I think you’re a grown woman who’s never been afraid to want what she wants.” He leans forward, the chair creaking. “Even when you were small, you always had a mind of your own.”

He pauses for a moment. “And let’s not pretend I’m the moral center of this family. When I met Andie, she didn’t know my name. We were strangers, and yet she let me ass-fuck her multiple times. Imagine that: allowing an anonymous dude to penetrate your asshole on the university campus. And I took full advantage of the opportunity too, so if anyone’s in a glass house here, it’s me.”

He stands, slow and unhurried, and smooths the front of his shirt. For a moment, he looks older than I’ve ever seen him—tired, maybe, or just ready to be done with it all. “I’m not going to judge you. Or Hunter. Or Lachlan.” He glances at the blond man, a ghost of a smile. “The three of you are adults. The world’s already hard enough without me making it worse.”

He moves toward the door, pausing in the frame. “If there’s one thing I do know,” he says, looking at me, “it’s that you’re not easily broken, Stella. And anyone who thinks you can be, doesn’t know you at all.” He nods once, sharp, then leaves, the door swinging wide behind him.

The air in the study feels different now, thinner and charged, like the aftermath of a storm.

For a long minute, we don’t move. Then Hunter stands, rolls his neck, and stretches, his silhouette huge against the lamp glow.

Lachlan sits forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. I sit, finally, in the third chair, my legs trembling so hard I almost miss the seat.

I stare at the scotch glass, still untouched, the liquid catching the light like gold.

“Well,” I say, my voice hoarse. “That went better than I thought.”

Hunter snorts. “He always was a cold bastard. But I’ll take it.”

Lachlan says nothing, but I see the lines in his forehead ease, just a little.