Own Me (The Wolf Hotel, #5)(22)

“What do you want?” I’m sure teenage Henry never imagined he’d be revisiting his indiscretions later, in the form of another human being. Is he looking for a way out of it now?

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t answer the question. “There’s a Philly address here.”

“That’s a long way for her to travel, alone.”

“This contract was signed sixteen years ago. I doubt they still live there.”

“Dyson could help you track them down, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not about what I want, is it? It’s about what’s right.” His shoulders drop as if weighed down. “I could do without a life-altering shock for a week or two. Is that too much to ask?”

I close the distance and curl my arms around his waist. He smells delicious—of cedar and spice. “We’ll figure it out.”

Henry rests his chin on top of my head, allowing me to hold him in silence while his thoughts sink into the depths.

Finally, he sighs, breaking the spell. “I need to comb through this in detail, see how my father’s lawyers tied her up so I know what I’m dealing with. I’ll see you in bed.”

A dismissal. He wants time alone to absorb and think. “Don’t stay up too late,” I warn him, but it’s futile. If I know Henry at all, he won’t come to bed until he has every answer he’s looking for.





“Dyson found them.”

I blink against the daylight slipping through the crack in the curtains, taking a moment to gather my bearings. Henry stands in the doorway to the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp. I’m not sure he even made it to bed.

Last night’s sleep was restless, my mind toiling as I drifted in and out of consciousness, my insecurities feeding on baseless worries and my dreams painting terrible scenes—of Henry’s smoking hot teacher and the mother of his child invading our lives.

Of Henry rethinking his future with me.

“They’re still in Philadelphia.” He disappears into the closet, and I hear the towel flop to the floor. My blood stirs with a mental image of Henry’s perfect naked form.

Now is not the time for those thoughts. I pull myself up to a sitting position, searching for the will to get out of bed. “How did Violet get here from Philly?”

“Train, I imagine. Unless she stole a car. With that kid’s attitude, I wouldn’t be shocked.” A moment later, Henry emerges with pants on.

I admire his torso as he tugs a black sweater over his head. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one thing to do. Talk to Audrey.”

The version of Henry I know well is back—calm, take charge, unruffled. “And you’re sure Violet is yours?” I ask, though I already know the answer to that. I saw it in her face.

“Yes, she’s mine. My father insisted on a paternity test as part of the contract. He probably gave them my toothbrush as a sample.”

“Of course he did.” If William wanted the test and didn’t want Henry to know, then the test would run and Henry wouldn’t be the wiser.

“It doesn’t matter what my father did or didn’t do in the past. He’s gone and I’m here, and I have a child I now know about. I can’t ignore that, even if I might want to.” Henry collects his wallet and watch from the dresser. “I’ll be back later.”

“Wait, you’re going now?” I check the bedside clock. It’s a quarter to ten on a Sunday morning.

“It’ll be noon by the time I get there.”

“Right.” Of course, he wouldn’t waste time. This is Henry, after all. But a twinge of worry pricks me. Henry is running out the door to meet the mother of his child, his horny teenage conquest.

And he’s doing it without me.

No, he’s not.

“Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.”

His jaw tenses. “I think it’s best if—”

“I’m coming with you, Henry. Don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.” I force as much confidence in my voice as I can muster, sliding out of bed.

He tracks my body—clad in a tank top and panties—as I stroll past him into the closet.

But he doesn’t argue.

In fact, from the corner of my eye, I think I catch a smile.





My face blanches as I read the email. “Zaheera is recommending a first batch run of five thousand soaps for mid-November.”

“It’s a small start,” Henry says, his focus on the business section of the newspaper.

“A small start?” I gape at him. “I haven’t sold that many bars in all my years of making soap, combined.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be sold out in under a day. They would have run the numbers. They know what they’re doing. Trust them.”

“I do. Of course I do. This marketing campaign they’re going out with is insane.” I flip through the presentation deck, filled with taglines and graphics, and Farm Girl Soap product reviews they’ve collected from Margo and her high-society friends, as well as a list of influencers they’re targeting.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Nothing. I’m nervous.” What if everyone is wrong? What if they think too highly of my product? Of me?