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“So what? You’re not their first choice, but you’re the best choice, and they’re going to be really glad their so-called first choice dropped out.”
“I know. I think I know, anyway.”
“You do know. I won’t deny that the selfish part of me wants you to stay, but that’s only for my own comfort level. I’ll be just fine, and so will you.”
“I invited you here,” she says.
“Actually, your uncle Ryan invited me here.”
“If you want to get technical, yeah. But I invited you to stay here. At my house.”
“Oh. Yeah, you did, but your mom and dad have made it clear they’re thrilled to have me, so we’re good.”
Diana sniffles back her tears. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”
“Maybe a little.”
“I must seem like a spoiled brat to you. I’m not. I’m really not. My mom and dad taught me to work my ass off, and I do. Which is why it hurt so much last spring when I didn’t get the internship. I tried really hard, worked so hard on my essay and my design for the competition, and then I didn’t get it. I’d finally come to terms with it, and then this happens.”
“Meaning, you got the internship you originally wanted.”
“Yeah. Like I said. Ridiculous.” She sniffs again. “What are you doing in here, anyway? I kind of hid out in here so no one would find me. You seemed to be enjoying the party so much, I didn’t think you’d come back in the house, so I’m hiding out in your room, where no one would look for me.”
“I came to change. I guess I’m going on a walk with your cousin.”
“Brock?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting. I didn’t think he was your type.”
“He’s every woman’s type, Dee. Everyone in your family is drop-dead gorgeous.”
She smiles. Sort of. “I guess I just don’t think of my brothers and cousins that way.”
“I’d be worried if you did.” I grab a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “Excuse me for a minute.” I walk into the private bathroom and shed my wet suit, hanging it on the shower rack. I dress quickly, take my hair out of the pony and comb it out. It’s damp, but I’m not out to impress Brock Steel. This is a walk. Nothing more.
“You look good, Ash,” Diana says when I leave the bathroom.
“As good as it gets,” I say. I’m not blowing my hair out. It’ll dry by itself. “You all good here?”
She nods. “Yeah. Sorry to bother you with this. I really didn’t think you’d be back in so soon.”
“Not a problem. I’m glad to help. You’re going to kill it, Dee. Remember that.”
She nods again and stands. “Do I look okay?”
“Diana, you’d look okay covered in horse poo. Now get back out there and enjoy your party.”
She leaves, and I give myself a minute.
Do I want to go on this walk with Brock?
I don’t not want to. He’s a nice guy. He’s just not Dale.
But Dale left. He’s clearly not interested in pursuing anything further. He couldn’t be more clear.
I draw in a deep breath.
Then I walk out of my room, through the house, and out onto the deck, where Brock is waiting for me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dale
Diana’s party is still going strong. Voices clamor in the distance, making their way to my back door. I resist the almost desperate urge to walk back to check on Ashley.
I need something to occupy my mind.
I head into my home office and find a stack of mail waiting for me. I have a housekeeper who comes in twice a week. She always stacks my mail neatly in a pile on my desk, and I try to look at it once a week or so. Anything important comes to the office building, and all my bills are on autopay, so rarely does anything important come to the house. It’s mostly junk, but junk appeals to me at the moment.
I sift through it, giving each piece a quick glance before tossing it into the trash.
Until a white envelope gives me pause.
The return address gives me even more pause.
John Greene, private investigator.
Why would a PI be writing to me?
One way to find out. I slide the letter opener across the envelope in a perfect straight slit. I pull out the letter.
Dear Mr. Steel,
* * *
I’m writing on behalf of my client, who wishes not to be named. I believe my client may be your birth father.
My stomach drops.
My birth father? We never knew him. My birth mother never spoke of him.
Man, this all seems like a lifetime ago.
I glance back down at the letter.
My client hired me to find his two sons that he fathered with a woman named Cheri. He couldn’t remember her last name.
Robertson, you dickhead. Her name was Cheri Robertson. You gave her two sons, and you can’t remember her fucking name?
