His Father’s Addiction

CHAPTER 14

HAZEL

My alarm didn't wake me.

That alone should have told me something was wrong. I am a deep sleeper, the kind who needs three alarms set at five-minute intervals and still hits snooze twice.

Waking up on my own, naturally, without any electronic intervention, simply does not happen.

I stretched, my eyes still closed, registering the unfamiliar softness of the mattress beneath me. Then I opened my eyes.

A thirty-two-inch television hung on the wall across the room. I sat up slowly.

I did not own a thirty-two-inch television. I did not own a bed this high off the ground, or a room this size, the morning light coming through curtains that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

This was not Betty's house.

I sat with that information for a moment.

Okay, think.

I remember the storm, Elvis, and me waiting in the office. I had sat down on the couch to rest my back for just a moment, and that was it.

I got up and moved to the door, easing it open, and what greeted me on the other side made me stop in my tracks.

From the landing, I could see all the way down to the main floor, the sweep of it, the light, the scale. And on the wall below, a large portrait of Elvis, with smaller ones of his sons arranged beside it.

Elvis had carried me to his actual house, crap!

A flicker of panic moved through me before I caught it.

What if Jarvis is here? I moved the panic away, no.

He'd told me himself, more than once, that he needed to prove something to his father before he could stand in this house without it being a sign of defeat. I was safe.

I descended the stairs.

They were at the dining table, Elvis and Donald, the breakfast spread between them like something out of a hotel menu.

My stomach growled. Vanilla sandwiches, fresh oats, millet, a bowl of fruits, chocolate bread still warm enough to smell from where I stood, coffee, tea, and at least two things I couldn't identify but wanted immediately.

"Is this the time you normally wake up for work?"

Elvis didn't look up from his plate.

"No, sir." I stopped at the foot of the stairs. "My alarm wakes me up at home. Since I wasn't at home." I gestured vaguely at the general situation, which I felt explained itself.

He said nothing and continued eating.

I was still trying to piece together the gap in my memory. I was a deep sleeper. How had I been moved from an office couch to a guest room in a mansion and retained absolutely no awareness of it?

What had I said? What had I done? The possibilities were not entirely comfortable to consider.

"Hazel, right?"

Donald, at least, was looking at me. There was warmth in it.

"Yes."

"Come join us." He gestured to the empty chair across from him. "There's more than enough."

Finally, someone with actual manners.

I smiled at him and crossed the room quickly before the invitation could be reconsidered, pulling out the chair and assessing the table with the focused appreciation it deserved.

Where to begin. The chocolate bread, obviously. But also the oats, creamy, from the look of them. And at least one sandwich. I settled on two sandwiches and a bowl of oats and tried to remember that I was a guest.

"We'll be working from home today." Elvis's voice came from the direction of the stairs; he was already moving, breakfast apparently concluded.

"You have an hour. They'll show you to my study."

I nodded, mouth already full. He disappeared.

"My dad can be a lot." Donald's voice came next. He refilled his coffee.

"How has it been working for him?"

I set my spoon down.

"Working with your father is a lot, but nothing I can't handle."

He studied me for a moment, that same quiet assessment I'd noticed from him before, like he was filing something away for later. Then he smiled back, slowly, and stood.

"We'll talk more about that when I return." He buttoned his jacket. "Enjoy your breakfast."

He left.

I ate in peace, which was all I'd wanted from the beginning.

######

The study was beautiful.

I stood in the doorway for longer than was strictly necessary, taking it in.

Glass panels, nude curtains that diffused the light.

A couch positioned near the window, potted plants in the corners, overhead lighting and along the far wall, a proper library, shelves floor to ceiling, spines.

Elvis had a good taste for aesthetics.

I made a mental note to do something like this when I had my own place. Then the thought snagged, the apartment I'd been so excited about, the one I'd half-decorated in my head before Jarvis had…

I stopped that thought and walked inside.

"Are you going to stand in the doorway and stare, or would you rather get to work?"

"Sorry, sir."

I set my things down and got to it.

The blueprint project was dense in fashion, which surprised me at first, though it shouldn't have. Being his assistant had gradually made it clear that Elvis Laurent's business interests extended beyond the company floor.

The fashion line was one of several. .

We worked for hours. The room was quiet except for keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper.

My curiosity, however, was patient but persistent.

"You can break for lunch," he said eventually, without looking up. "Rest if you need to. Come back in an hour."

"Can I ask a question first?"

“You always have questions. Go on."

"How did I get here?" I watched his face. "The last thing I remember is falling asleep on the couch in my office."

He set the laptop aside, leaned back. Brought both hands up to support his jaw, looking at me with a playful expression tucked in at the corners of his face.

"The better question," he said, "is what you didn't say."

I went very still.

Then I closed my eyes slowly, because I needed a moment to process that sentence without my face giving me away entirely.

When I opened them, he was grinning so hard.

It looked good on him.

I was still trying to formulate a response when the voice came from behind me.

"Who is she?"

I turned.

A woman stood at the entrance of the study, somewhere around my mother's age, possibly younger; it was hard to tell. Black dress, floor-length. Dark lipstick and large bangles at her wrist.

She was looking at me.

"Tessy." Elvis stood up. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Who is she?" she asked again.

"No one of importance, just my assistant."

The words landed quietly.

I kept my face where it was, but those words pierced my soul.