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He slips his hands into his jeans pockets as his jaw flexes.
“You’ll come back on Friday.” I turn and start back up the steps.
“Scar,” he calls out, taking another slash at my heart.
I don’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll break all over again.
We all will.
ONE
Scarlet
It’s my birthday.
Today, I turn twenty-eight years old. I have the whole day planned, and as my bare feet hit the wooden floorboards in the west wing corridor of my family home, my eyes blaze through the window and out across the meadow.
I smile extra wide.
I’d like to think the day will go perfectly, but there’s no guarantee it will. Like the rain that taints the air as it patters the still-warm pavements in the heat of a British summer, this day will be unpredictable—I can feel it in my gut.
Perhaps my optimism—or lack of it—could be down to the book I devoured yesterday. The final moments of a happily ever after forcing me to sacrifice more sleep than I’d normally allow. But there’s something about a fiery woman taming the older Mafia don I can’t seem to pass up. Throw in an arranged marriage and a little praise, and I’ll take the book with a double shot of my favourite coffee.
Keep the change.
I bound down the staircase with a spring in my step, fastening one of the clasps on my faded denim-wash dungarees with my smile firmly intact. The prospect of a new day is nearly as exciting as the fact that I’ll be seeing my brother today. It’s been months since I last saw the business tycoon that is Mason Lowell, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked when he called to invite me out for lunch. The man is impossible to get hold of. So, lunch, a whole hour dedicated to me… I snapped it up. Truthfully, I’d take five minutes of my brother’s time if he would give it to me.
“Is that the sound of my beautiful birthday girl arising?”
I smile as I land on the bottom step, my father’s voice carrying from the sitting room. I follow it and round the doorway.
My head tilts when I see him shifting to the edge of his armchair to get up. “Good morning, Dad.”
His neck twists, his face transforming when he spots me. He slowly stands, working harder than fair to keep his face placid.
I meet him halfway, catching my feet with a quick gaze to right the concern that pulls between my brows. He doesn’t want my pity.
“Happy birthday, Scarlet.”
“Thank you.” My lips twitch, and I look up at him. “How are you feeling this morning?” I ask.
“Grand. I made you breakfast.”
“You did?” I say, surprised, as I follow him out of the room.
Anthony Lowell has always been my hero. From the day he carried me away from my mother’s grave as a baby to the nights we’ve walked away hand in hand. He’s the best man I’ve ever known—a true gent, attentive father, hard worker, and retired businessman.
Some would add alcoholic to that list—my brother sure would—but I prefer to call it what it is or what I’ve witnessed firsthand for the last fifteen-plus years.
A broken man, doing his damn best to make it into tomorrow.
Nobody gets to judge my hero. Not until they learn to fill the shoes he’s worn for this family.
“You dyed your hair?” he questions, eyeing the lavender strands over his shoulder as we near the kitchen.
“I did. You were sleeping, but I think I did an okay job.”
