Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Great wedding,” Van mused. “Our kids looked pretty damn happy.”
“They did.”
“It was so them,” Katy said.
“Do you think any of them will ever have a traditional, normal wedding?” Bentley asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke into the air.
“No,” we all replied.
“Penny’s was close,” Katy said.
Everyone laughed. “If you consider royalty at your wedding normal,” Maddox pointed out.
“Addi’s was pretty normal.”
Aiden laughed. “Except for the whole Jaxson thing.”
We all chuckled.
“Weddings have changed. It used to be they were all the same,” Katy pointed out. “Our kids keep us guessing.”
“Besides, I don’t think we can exactly claim to have had traditional weddings ourselves,” Maddox pointed out. “Bentley’s was the closest to normal, I think.”
“Bentley is always traditional,” Aiden agreed.
“Nothing wrong with tradition,” Bentley stated, lifting his glass. “This one has served us well.”
We all lifted our glasses with him.
“To my daughter and her new husband. Another one done,” I said.
“To awesome, untraditional weddings,” Maddox replied.
With a sigh, I sat back, feeling reflective. It had been great. Seeing my daughter happy and married. Spending time with our extended family. Laughing and sharing the joy of the day. It had all been good—except for the unsolved issue of Ashley.
As if I had summoned her, the patio door opened and she walked out on the deck, clutching a small bag. She was alone, which surprised me. She had changed and now wore a pair of loose slacks and a sweatshirt. Without makeup and the heels, she looked younger, more vulnerable. I met her gaze, seeing the determination in it, and for some reason, my stomach dropped.
She approached the table, stopping just shy of me.
“Mr. VanRyan, may I speak with you in private?”
I shook my head, setting down my cigar. “No, you may not.”
She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of these people. They are my family, and I have no secrets from them.”
For a moment, there was silence, the tension in the air building.
“I was raised by a single mother,” she said, her eyes locked on me.
I nodded, unsure where this was going.
“She refused to tell me about my father. The only thing she said was that he was a narcissistic, unfeeling, selfish asshole she never wanted me subjected to. She also said he wouldn’t have anything to do with me anyway.”
A buzz started somewhere in my head. I shook it slightly to clear it.
“And?” I prompted.
“My mom died six years ago. She never told me who my father was.”
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Katy slipped her hand into mine, and I squeezed it, feeling the dampness of her palm. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“My birth certificate states father’s name as unknown. But my mother knew who you were.”
The words echoed in my head. “Who I was?” I repeated, my heartbeat picking up.
“Does the name Juliet Brennan mean anything to you?”
Brennan.
A memory stirred. Faint. Distant. But it was elusive, and I couldn’t grasp it. Beside me, Katy gasped, the sound low and shocked.
“Should it?” I asked, my voice not sounding right, realizing I had risen to my feet.
“My mom had a shirt she kept locked away. I recall seeing it when I was younger, and I asked what it was. She said it belonged to my father. She took it away, and I never saw it again until she died.”
She tossed the clear bag on the table, and I stared at the folded dress shirt. Plain, once white, it was discolored and old. Innocuous except for the RVR monogrammed on the cuffs. Black, bold, and still vivid. It was my shirt. I’d worn the same style and monogram for almost forty years, and I would recognize it anywhere.
But she could have gotten it at a thrift store, for all I knew. I’d discarded enough of them for that to happen. An old shirt didn’t establish parentage.
Our eyes locked, stormy and angry, mine prepared to fight. Except, with a start, I saw why she seemed familiar. She had my eyes, my wide forehead, and the cowlick I always hated. I recognized the anger that burned in her gaze. I had seen it in the mirror most of my young adult life.
It hadn’t been my hands she’d reacted to. It was the cuffs of my shirt. The ones that identified me as her father.
I swallowed, the sounds of shocked gasps and low curses swirling in the air. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“You are my father,” she hissed, venom dripping from her voice. “And I hate you.”
10
RICHARD
Everything seemed to happen at once. Katy’s hand slid from mine, and she covered her mouth. All the men at the table stood. Halton rounded the table, standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
Luc burst through the patio doors, hurrying over, reaching Ashley. He looked around the table, his eyes widening as he saw the bag containing the shirt.