Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(29)

“If that’s why he’s here, we’ll deal. But I’m going to start with the assumption that this is family business.” His gaze cuts toward me. “After all, the man used to be my brother-in-law.”

I scowl, not liking that reminder.

He heads for the door, pausing long enough to glance at me, his smile thin but reassuring. Then he’s out the door and out of sight.

I expect Archie to leave. I hope he will, actually, because I really want to get out of this bed and get dressed.

But he’s not going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure I know why.

“We’ve shocked you,” I say.

His mouth curves just slightly, making the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen and softening his usually dour, professional expression. “No, Miss Jane. At least not in the way you mean.”

“ ‘Not in the way I mean’? I don’t understand.”

“Deliverance,” he says flatly, and my eyes go wide. “I’m surprised he told you.”

I think back on the conversation. “How do you know he did?”

“Because you’re worried that your Mr. Martin is here to interrogate him. That he’s learned that Dallas created Deliverance, and that he’s on a mission to bring him down.”

“Well, yeah,” I admit. “That about sums it up.” I consider him thoughtfully. “I guess I should have assumed that you’d know. You know pretty much everything that goes on in this house.”

“I do indeed.” This time, I don’t have to search to see that he’s amused. It’s all over his face. “Surely you didn’t think that I find job satisfaction in throwing decadent parties for a useless playboy.”

“I—no.” I frown, remembering. I’ve seen the pride on Archie’s face when he looks at Dallas, heard it in his voice. But Archie isn’t the kind of man who would be pleased by the lifestyle that Dallas projects. On the contrary, he helped raise us, and I know he feels proprietary about us. A wasted life isn’t something he would be happy about.

“And Mrs. Foster?” I ask, referring to Liam’s mother.

“She knows about Deliverance. Dallas and Liam decided early on that it made sense to tell her. She supports it, though she doesn’t work for it.”

“And you do.”

“As much as I’m able.”

I exhale loudly. “So many secrets …”

“But fewer today than yesterday, Miss Jane.”

“You call Dallas and Liam by their names. Why am I Miss Jane?”

“Because I’m an old man set in my ways.”

I actually snort. “Not hardly.”

He chuckles. “I’ll let you get dressed now. Shall I pour first?”

It takes me a minute to realize he means the coffee. I’ve managed to wake up just fine without a single cup. “I’ll get it myself in a bit.”

He nods, then starts toward the door.

“Archie?”

He turns back.

“Thanks.”

He hesitates. “I should clarify—when I said that I was surprised he told you about Deliverance, I meant the timing, not the revelation. You two couldn’t be what you are to each other with something that significant hanging between you.”

“He told you that?”

“No, but as you said, there’s not much I miss that goes on in this house. Last week, I knew you two had a disagreement. I had hoped you would make up, of course, but I didn’t anticipate that revelations about Deliverance would be part of that equation.”

“Deliverance was at the heart of the argument,” I confide. “I learned about it accidentally and kind of freaked out.”

“Ah,” he says, as if all the pieces are falling into place.

They’re falling into place for me, too. “You don’t really have a sick aunt in Pennsylvania, do you?” I recall how he’d left without even speaking to Dallas. We’d simply come back into the house from the cabana and found Archie’s note.

“I have a cousin in Chicago who’s feeling slightly under the weather, but no. I thought the two of you needed some privacy.”

“And, um, it really doesn’t bother you? What Dallas and I are to each other, I mean.” It’s an awkward question, but I’m compelled to ask it. If Archie’s not freaked out, then maybe my parents will come to accept it, too.

It’s a nice little fantasy, and so I cling to it gratefully, but I also know it’s not true. My mother, maybe. But Daddy? Not in a million years.

It takes a moment for Archie to answer, and in the silence, I can read nothing in his face. Finally, he speaks. “Do you intend to give him up?”

“No.” My answer is firm and immediate.

“Then it doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks,” he adds, as if he understands exactly where my mind has been going.

“I guess it doesn’t.” I want to be satisfied with his answer, but I can’t deny that I crave the words—the reassurance that he doesn’t judge us harshly. I want that, and at the same time I hate how insecure that need makes me feel.

“Jane,” he says gently, “I saw the connection between you two more than twenty years ago. I’m not upset at you, but for you. You have a hard road, but you can make it. You’re strong,” he says. “You were forged in fire … You’re a fighter.”