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“Oh my God,” Sammy groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Dad! He’s not an intruder!”
Dad?
“Dad?” I blurt, turning to Sammy.
She tosses her hands in the air. “Declan, this is my father. Dad, this is Saoirse’s brother. Remember the lemon cake guy?”
He nods, a grin spreading across his face as if everything is clicking together for him. “Yes. Was he here for that now? To try thecake?” He says cake, like it’s sinful, like he knows exactly what I was about to do to his daughter before he so rudely interrupted.
Sammy raises her hand to stop him. “No. Don’t.”
Is he egging this situation on? Knowing that she’s married? Her cheeks flush as she attempts to hide behind the neckline of her shirt. Her dad knows what he just walked in on, and he’s not judging her for cheating. . . and I’m not sure what the fuck is going on. I look at her for answers, but she just clears her throat, heads for the fridge, and pulls out the cake.
I approach the kitchen island, extremely uncomfortable, and take a seat at the backless stool. Sammy opens the containers, plates the desert, and sets two slices in front of me with a fork and a glass of water. Her dad eyes me.
“My wife spent a lot of time perfecting this recipe,” he says, a scowl now in place. “You better like it.”
Sammy shoots her dad a dirty look, then turns back to me. “He’s kidding.”
“Am I?” he asks. “Because I think that the first person you bring home after Ian should understand the importance of this. Of what it means to be in a relationship with someone raising two children alone. Two kids who certainly aren’t looking for a father figure.” He glares at me, then back at her. “This is a big step, Samira. This wasn’t what I meant when I told you it was time to move on.”
I turn to Sammy. “Ian?” I ask, raising a brow.
She raises one right back as if to sayduh, Sherlock.
“You don’t know the name of her late husband?” her dad huffs, shaking his head. “This guy is a real keeper, Samira. Can’t even remember Ian’s name.”
She rubs her temple. “I never told him, Dad.”
His mouth forms a slight O shape, and he furrows his brow.
I shake my head.Ian Cullen.
“I should go get Em from her friends.” He steps backward, slowly removing himself from the awkward situation. “Take her out to dinner. Where’s Max? I’ll take him too. We’ll grab a movie afterward.”
“Max is with the neighbor. You can grab Em and come right home. No need to disappear. You’ve already dropped the bomb, Dad. Thanks. Don’t worry. I’ll clean up the debris.”
He raises his hands, palms out in defense. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” He reaches the edge of the exit. “But just remember, sweetheart. We still have plenty of room for you to come hide out at the farm.”
“What’s going on, Samira?” I ask, the name Ian clicking in my head. “Ian Cullen?” My hands clench the edge of the countertop. “I remember his death.”
“His parents have their hands in a lot of different pots. You’ve probably done business with them. Probably have even met him. He was murdered.”
“He died in his sleep,” I say, recalling the obituary.
She shakes her head. “That’s what his parents wanted.”
“What really happened?” I ask, desperate to know the truth, to understand why she felt the need to keep this secret from me.
Why would she lie? Why would his parents not want the truth to come out? Wouldn’t they want the killer to be found? Unless. . . unless he killed himself the same way my Cara did.
“I don’t want to do this with you,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face. “Please. Just try the cake so we can get on with this and you can leave.”
“Did he off himself? It was a closed casket.”
Her hand slams against the counter. “Fuck you!”
I step closer, the need to keep her riled up and pissed off coursing through me. Who fucking lies about how their significant other died? Someone who can’t face the truth. That’s okay. I’ll help her realize just how badly she fucked up. I’ll make her hurt the way he did, the way Cara did. “He did, didn’t he? Probably fucked his brains all up.”
