Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(8)
She won’t be wrong.
Then I’m up, locking the front door to the “dump” and jogging toward my Mercedes G-Wagon. “Let’s go, kid,” I call back as I wave a hand over my shoulder. “Need a bathroom? A snack? We can grab a burger on the drive.” I need to move. Get going. I need to push myself far enough down this path that I don’t think too hard about it and come up with more reasons I shouldn’t.
Because in my heart, I know this is the right thing to do. No matter how fucking insane it seems. I’m trusting my gut.
Cora isn’t far behind me. She slides into the passenger seat, and I can feel her staring at me. Probably confused by how I went from comparing her to Wednesday Addams to whatever the hell I’m about to do now. “I would never say no to a burger.”
As I check my pockets for my wallet, I ask, “Are you tall enough to sit in the front seat?”
“I’m twelve.”
I sigh and press the start button, the hum of my SUV filling the otherwise quiet cab. “It seems like kids these days stay in car seats until they can legally drink, so just trying to be safe or whatever.”
She snorts and clicks her belt into the latch. I catch myself staring at her profile, trying to pick pieces of myself out in her. The snarky one-liners are mine for sure. Possibly the great taste in music. The black laces. Maybe even her heavy brows that make her look like she’s scowling.
We travel off my property in silence, and it’s not until I hit the end of the long, tree-lined driveway that I realize I don’t know where I’m going. “Wait. Where do you live?”
She glances down, hiding beneath a wince. “In Calgary.”
“That’s… that’s over three hours away.”
She bites at the inside of her cheek before peeking up at me. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“How did you get here?” My signal light is on, but I haven’t made the turn yet.
“Bus. Took all night with the stops.”
“Your mom let you take the bus all the way here overnight?”
She turns her head and stares out the window. “I think she probably slept through me leaving and still hasn’t gotten out of bed.”
We pull up in front of a typical split-level home on a street full of similar houses. There’s a school just down the street. A hockey net sits on the side of the road, sticks and gloves stacked on top like some kids got called away midgame for lunch.
It looks like a perfectly normal family neighborhood. One with tidy driveways and middle-of-the-line cars.
The only thing that appears different about Cora’s property is the lawn. It’s mowed like all the rest, but the lines aren’t quite straight. There’s something disheveled about the place compared to the houses next to it. The partially drawn curtains in the middle of the afternoon make it seem almost shut down, like the people who live here are away on vacation.
But I know they’re not.
Cora hops out of the vehicle and slams the door harder than necessary, then strides up to the front door. I follow, glancing around to see if anyone is watching. It’s surreal, pulling up with a kid I didn’t know existed, to a house I’ve never visited, and meeting a woman who… used my sperm?
I scrub a hand over my stubble as I approach the front door.
“Sorry about the mess,” Cora mutters as she presses a sequence of numbers on the lock and pushes into the house.
And she wasn’t kidding. I stand at the entryway and take in the open-concept home before me. My office may be a dump, but this house feels like a dark, stale cave. The TV is playing a news station, just loud enough that I can hear the anchor mumbling something while the ticker runs across the bottom. The kitchen needs cleaning. There’s a pizza box on the cluttered counter. Milk left out beside it. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink.
Nothing smells rotten—yet—but it smells stagnant. “Make yourself at home,” Cora says. “I’ll go get Mom.”
Then she darts around the corner, shoes on, feet thumping up the stairs.
I remain standing awkwardly in the entryway—I don’t know how to make myself at home here. What I’d like to do is clean and open the windows, but that feels like overstepping.
It’s funny how being the World’s Hottest Billionaire doesn’t prepare you for something like this. It was a stupid title to win, and now I have proof. Cora wasn’t especially forthcoming during the drive. Any time I asked about her mom, she’d turn and stare out the window before mumbling the least detailed answer possible. I get the sense she’s protecting her mom, shielding me in her own way. Avoiding the conversation.
I recognize the move because I do it too. But this time, it has me walking into a situation that could play out in so many different ways. It could all blow up so spectacularly.
I pull out my phone to check the time. I wait another ten minutes before checking my phone again.
Then I hear murmurs and two sets of footsteps, and before I know it, I’m facing a woman who appears to be in her late fifties—she can’t be that much younger than my mother. Though the comparison to my mom ends there. I thought Cora looked tired, but this woman looks stricken.
She approaches with a dazed expression on her face, forcing a smile to her lips as she lifts her limp hand to take mine. “Hi, I’m Marilyn.”
“Hi, Marilyn. I’m Ford,” I reply softly, taking in the baggy clothes, tangled hair, and creases on her cheek— presumably from sleeping. Having just checked my phone, I know that it’s not even 2:00 p.m., not a typical time of day to be asleep on a Tuesday.