Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Garret parks and turns off the engine, and I swivel toward him, just wanting to get this over with. The sudden silence feels heavy, thick with tension.
A strange pit has taken up residence in my gut. Garret has never scared me, and he doesn’t necessarily now, but I’m getting a weird vibe from him. My instincts have always been sharp, and at the moment, they’re practically screaming at me.
“Would you mind if we sat over there?” He nods toward the picnic table.
I hesitate. My gut tells me to decline, to stay in the safety of the car or, better yet, to leave entirely. Instead, I nod. “Sure. I just… can’t stay long.”
He jerks the handle and pushes the door open before climbing out. “Yeah, no problem.”
The chilly air nips at my skin as I follow him, careful to avoid the muddy puddles scattered across the grass. Once we reach the table, I settle across from him, lacing my fingers together and resting them on the scarred wood.
“So, what’s on your mind?” I ask, my voice steady despite the nervous energy bubbling inside me.
Garret shifts, his knee bouncing like a jackhammer under the table. His gaze flits around the park before landing on me. “I’ve always liked you, Holland.”
The bluntness of his words knocks me off balance, and my brain spins, unsure how to respond.
“I guess I was hoping that, at some point, you might feel the same. I think we have a lot in common.”
I shift in my seat as unease prickles across my skin. “You’re right, we do have some things in common, and I’ve always liked you too,” I admit carefully. “As a friend.”
He nods, his expression tightening. “Yeah, I get that. It just sucks. Sanderson isn’t the right guy for you. In the end, he’ll just hurt you. And I don’t want to see that happen.”
“I appreciate you looking out for me, but I didn’t come here to discuss my relationship with Bridger. Even if I weren’t with him, it wouldn’t have changed anything between us.” I keep my tone gentle but firm, hoping to defuse the situation without wounding him further.
His jaw works as he nods again, the continuous bouncing of his knee betraying his agitation.
“Garret?” I prompt when the silence stretches too long. “Is there something else?”
“This is hard,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
I watch him closely, the uneasy pit in my stomach growing. “Sometimes it helps to just get it off your chest.”
Before he can respond, his gaze shifts over my shoulder and his features harden. I turn, following his line of sight. My stomach twists when I spot a middle-aged man in a suit stepping out of one of the nearby houses. The man’s tie hangs loose, and he straightens his jacket, as if he’s in a rush or maybe leaving somewhere he shouldn’t have been.
My pulse quickens as recognition slams into me. “Wait a minute, isn’t that Bridger’s father?”
Garret’s glare sharpens. “Yeah.”
I blink, my brain struggling to process what I’m seeing. “What’s he doing here?”
Garret exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists on the table. “He stops by once a week and stays for about forty-five minutes. An hour, if Mom’s lucky.”
The world tilts as the pieces start to fall into place. “Are you saying this is your house? That Bridger’s father is seeing your mom?”
Garret’s lips press into a thin line as his nostrils flare. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll deny it, but then he nods.
And then everything clicks—the sharp cheekbones, the similar jawline, the tension that always simmers just beneath Garret’s surface. I suck in a breath as the realization slams into me.
“Is he… your father?”
Garret’s eyes slice to mine, cold and unforgiving. “Yes.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare at him as my mind cartwheels. The pieces are all snapping into place, but I don’t like the picture they’re forming. The texts, the personal details only someone close to Bridger would know, the bitterness in Garret’s tone whenever his teammate’s name comes up.
Oh shit.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re the one behind the messages.”
Instead of denying it, he leans back on the bench, his posture almost defiant. “Yeah. It’s me.”
My jaw drops, and for a second, I can’t find the words. Then anger surges up, hot and sharp. “Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused? To Bridger? He’s one of your team—” I stop myself and shake my head, trying to get a mental grasp on it all. “He’s your brother?”
“Half-brother,” he bites out. “And Mr. Perfect will be just fine.”
“Don’t do that. You don’t get to play the victim here. Whatever issues you have with your dad or Bridger, you don’t get to hurt him like this. He doesn’t even know!”
Oh my God, he doesn’t even know he has a brother.