Wild Love

2

But my attachment to this area is more than just that. I’m drawn back to this place on a much deeper level. To the memories it holds.

“Well, this year you won’t have to cry about it, West. You’re officially stuck with me.”

I toss the duster back into the box, coming to terms with the fact I might need to hire someone to help get this place up and running if I want to record here anytime soon. The main house is now livable—fully updated it myself over the winter—but this building is so much worse.

“f**k yeah. I’m going to get you on my bowling team.”

“No. Absolutely not. You told me it’s dads’ night out, and I’m not a dad.” I kick my toe at what I thought was a dead bug but am now certain is mouse droppings. “Except to maybe an entire herd of mice.”

“I don’t think mice roam in herds.”

“Whatever they are, I don’t think they qualify me as a dad.”

“That’s fine. It’s really just Sebastian and me, assuming he’s in town, and then we’ve got you⁠—”

“You haven’t got me⁠—”

“And then we’ve got Crazy Clyde.”

“Who’s Crazy Clyde? I don’t think you can just roll around calling people crazy anymore.”

“He’s the dude who lives on the other side of the mountain—pretty much a hermit—because he believes in every conspiracy theory known to man. His stories are my favorite. And he’ll introduce himself as Crazy Clyde, so I’ll let you be the one to correct him.”

I blink at my friend. This sounds like my nightmare.

“I’m not f*****g bowling with you, West.”

He scoffs and dismisses my words with a hand flick. “You say that now. But you always said no to my shenanigans as a kid too. And then you’d be there. Emo hair in your eyes, pushing those oversized glasses up the bridge of your nose.” He grins at me, perfect white teeth flashing bright next to his rough stubble. “Moody scowl on your face. Probably some obscure book of poetry clutched under your arm.”

I can’t help but snort out a laugh at his accurate description as I shake my head. “Get f****d, Belmont.”

“Look at you now⁠—”

My pointer finger aims straight at him. “Don’t even say it.”

As he speaks, his hands make sweeping, dramatic movements through the air. “World’s Hottest Billionaire.”

“I hate you.”

“Nah. You love me. I’m the sunshine to your grumpy.”

My brows pinch together. “What?”

“It’s a thing in romance books⁠—”

A knock at the door cuts him off, and we both turn to look across the barn, toward the rickety front door down a narrow hallway that turns sharply into the kitchenette.

“Who would be here?” West whispers like we’re in trouble.

Maybe we are. I’ve only been in town for a short while, working on the main house, so I have no idea who it could be. My sister Willa would barge in unannounced. My parents would call. My best friend is sitting across from me.

Truth is, I have no one else in my life who cares about me enough to drive all this way.

I keep my circle tight and trust few. The allure of Rose Hill is that the paparazzi don’t want to spend all day driving to maybe get a shot.

“I don’t know.” I shrug and West’s eyes go wide as an owl’s as he shrugs back.

Another knock.

“I can hear you whispering in there,” a feminine voice I don’t recognize calls from the other side of the wooden door.

My head goes to Rosie first, but this voice sounds too young to be hers. So, with a heavy sigh, I stride toward the door and yank it open.

Before me stands a girl. She’s wearing black ripped jeans. Black Chuck Taylors. An oversized Death From Above 1979 T-shirt—one of my favorite bands. The garment boasts a few intentionally distressed holes across it. Her pitch-black hair is tied in two braids, one down each shoulder, complemented with straight bangs in a s***h across her forehead. All of this is topped off with an unimpressed expression on her face. The top loop of a JanSport backpack dangles from her fingers.

I don’t know how old she is. Young. Looks like that awkward, confusing age just before you become a teenager—based on her sullen stare and the sizable zit on her chin. She crosses her arms and drags her gaze from my face down to my feet before making her way back up.

“Who are you?” I don’t mean to sound like a d**k when I say it. After all, she’s just a kid.

Her lips flatten, and she blinks once, slowly. “Your daughter, dickhead.”

Now it’s my turn to blink slowly. I hear West’s chair roll across the hardwood and his heavy steps as he approaches.

“Pardon me?” I say. I heard the words, but my brain is not processing their meaning.

“You’re my dad,” she says and rolls her eyes. “Biologically speaking.”

But there’s no way. There’s absolutely no way. The mere statement puts me on the defensive. It’s laughable.

One stupid Forbes article about my bank account and the cockroaches crawl out. I know this story all too well. I almost feel bad for the girl. She’s too young to pull this off on her own. Someone must have put her up to it.

“Listen, whatever your name is, I’m not sure what you’re after from me, but I can take a guess. And you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“My name is Cora Holland. Your name is Ford Grant Junior, and you’re my biological dad.”

“Oof, leave the junior off,” West murmurs from behind me. “He hates that.”

I don’t spare my friend a glance. Instead, I stare down at the snarky little kid spouting total bullshit right to my face. She’s got a lot of nerve. I’ll give her that. “That’s impossible. I never f****d Morticia Addams.”

Her head tilts and her eyes roll again. She barely reacts. “Really original, nepo baby. Never heard that joke before.” She rifles through her backpack. Black, of course. With a flourish, she pulls out a sheet of paper emblazoned with a logo I recognize.

The company I submitted DNA to so I could complete a family tree as a gift for my mom.

“What about a paper Dixie cup?” she continues. “A petri dish? A sterile tube? You f**k any of those for a few bucks at any point in your life?”

I feel every drop of blood sink down to my feet as my stomach turns and my head spins.

Because yes, in fact, I did.

West slaps my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as he edges past me and out the door. “Right, well, see you at bowling, I guess.”

And then I’m left here.

Alone.

Staring at a young girl who may well be my biological child. And feeling like what I might actually be is the World’s Most Unprepared Dad.