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Although a sweaty Nate wasn’t necessarily a bad thing…
“Yeah, yeah,” Nate grumbled. He chewed and swallowed his last piece of pancake before he surveyed her with warm, sympathetic eyes. “Speaking of dads, are you ready to see yours?”
A heavy block of dread dropped into the pit of her stomach. “No, but I’d rather get it over with.” Kris fiddled with her bracelet. “Just like ripping off a Band-Aid, right?”
“Right,” Nate confirmed. “And if you need me, I’m a phone call away.”
She nodded.
She was not looking forward to her first conversation with her father post-bombshell, but it had to be done. She couldn’t stall forever.
Forty minutes later, Kris found herself staring at her family’s Beverly Hills home. Her father—and Gloria—were inside those walls.
The block of dread multiplied while she sat frozen in Nate’s car, tempted to call the whole thing off and hit the beach instead.
Avoidance: the answer to life’s problems.
Kris had avoided thinking about the implications of yesterday’s revelations so far, and she’d like that to continue, thank you very much. Sorting through her emotions regarding her real mother, her parents’ twisted history, and her aunt/fake mom’s out-of-the-blue betrayal required more time and therapy than she cared to commit to.
She’d grown up her entire life thinking her mom had abandoned her…and she had, in a way. But she’d been so hung up on the abandonment she’d never given much thought to what would happen if her mother reappeared in her life—and she’d certainly never thought about what she might do if she found out her real mother wasn’t who she thought she was.
“Come inside with me.” Kris gripped Nate’s hand, letting his warm strength ease her nerves.
He didn’t argue. He simply nodded and followed her to the front door.
Kris rang the doorbell, already regretting her breakfast decision. The pancakes and butter and maple syrup churned in her stomach, and she might hurl into that flowerpot—
The door flew open. Risa, the housekeeper Roger had hired to keep the mansion in acceptable shape throughout the year, didn’t remark on her boss’s daughter’s one-week absence from the household, but her relief was apparent.
She ushered them in and lured Nate to the kitchen with promises of homemade banana bread while Kris headed for her father’s office. It didn’t matter the house or location—you could almost always find Roger in his office.
“Call me if you need anything.” Nate pressed a quick kiss to her lips before they parted ways.
God, she loved that man.
Having Nate nearby provided Kris with the strength she needed to put one foot in front of the other without upchucking into the nearest antique vase. By the time she arrived in front of her father’s study, the block of dread had shrunk…by about two millimeters.
The door was ajar, but she knocked anyway and waited for her father’s “Come in” before she entered.
Roger stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the back of the estate, a glass of pale brown liquid in hand. He wore a charcoal sweater and jeans, and tufts of dark hair stuck out like he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Stress and exhaustion carved deep grooves in his face.
“Kris.” His low voice rumbled over her, and for some inane reason, she wanted to cry.
“Daddy.”
They stared at each other, the air between them heavy with broken promises, unearthed truths, and remaining secrets.
They had a lot to talk about.
* * *
After one hour,twenty-three minutes, and thirty-nine seconds of Nate doing nothing except staring, pacing, and hoovering Risa’s delicious banana bread, four things happened in rapid succession:
1) Nate ran out of bread to eat.
2) Gemma showed up looking for bread, Roger, and Kris (not necessarily in that order).
3) Kris and Roger showed up. The former nearly fell over when she saw Gemma, while the latter asked for—aka demanded—a “chat” with Nate.
