The Billionaire's Secret Love Child(105)

He marveled at the old farm house, the yellow-white paint peeling off, the shriveled shrubs overgrown against the porch railing that wrapped around the house. Smoke puffed out of the blackened chimney.

As we walked to the house, Philip pointed in the distance to the large red barn, though it looked more brown now, fading into disrepair.

“Are there cows in there?” He found everything around something to marvel at. “Look, look!” He giggled at the chickens that ran about his feet, pointed excitedly at a large willow in the front yard sporting a large tire swing, and hugged tight to Zelda’s box when a bright orange farm cat settled atop the wooden fence-post nearby, coolly watching us with his gaze.

“Erin!” The green screen door banged to a close as my father came out to greet us. His flannel shirt was dirtied, the sleeves rolled up. His heavy boots thundered as he bumbled down from the wooden porch.

“You came much earlier than I thought you would,” he said as we pulled away from a hug. He turned his sights to Philip, rustling at his hair with his large, worked hands.

“Hey there, Philip! It’s been a while. You were just this big when I last saw you,” he held his hands apart from one another.

“We made pretty good time,” I said, ushering Philip toward the door. “We’re tired, but we made it.”

Pete began unloading the truck. I held my hand out toward the door when a large hand closed in before mine, my father grasping onto it before me.

I stood back.

“I really didn’t expect you so early,” he said, shifting.

“Well, we’re here now…” I tried to skirt around him toward the door, but he stepped in front of me.

“You have to understand, Erin,” he said. “It’s a man’s duty to see through all his options.”

“Options? Duty? What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know sooner…”

I began to grow impatient. I was tired and jet lagged, and the last thing I needed was my father presenting me with games.

“Dad, please, just let me--”

“Momma, who is that man?”

Philip pointed toward the front living room window. A shadow moved from inside, the curtain swaying as if they had been peeking out at us.

“Who was that?”

My father shifted his gaze from me and sighed.

“Dad…” the impatience in my voice must have caused him to resign, and he stepped aside.

“I’m sorry,” was the last thing he said.

I walked into the house, the wood below creaking as I entered the breezeway. I could smell the warm fire burning in the living room fireplace.

I unzipped my boots so as not to drag the mud and slush through the house. Then, I turned right toward the living room. The wood was warm and slick beneath my socks. Walking through the archway, I immediately stopped in my tracks, my heart beating, almost jumping toward my throat.

The tall figure turned toward me, hands slouched in the crisp, gray slacks.

“Hello,” he said, in a cool, low voice. “It’s been a while...Erin.”



The last time I saw Matty Gordon was on our wedding day. Well, it was supposed to be our wedding day. I should perhaps clarify that the last time I saw him was as I was running out the door, picking up the train of my dress with one hand, and the straps of my heels with the other, sobbing “Sorry” and “I can’t do this” and “I’m not ready” to the bright-eyed, wiry young boy I had always known growing up.

The Matthew Gordon I saw in the living room was certainly not the wiry, doe-eyed Matty that I remembered. He wore a crisp and polished gray suit that altogether clashed with the outdated, cozy scene of my father’s living room, the shelves cluttered with old figurines and trinkets, and a bright red couch with my mother’s favorite knitted throw. A deep blue tie brought his ensemble together, and brought out the lightness of his blue-gray eyes.

Matthew had always been rather tall, but he seemed much bigger, fuller now. Less of a boy and more a man. His golden-brown hair fell just right, neatly swept, with a few stray strands sweeping across his forehead. His face sported a clean shave, but the afternoon scruff was already setting in, marking his strong jaw with flecks of darker brown. He was polished. I didn’t remember him ever being quite the type.

“Matty--Matthew,” I said, correcting myself. I had pictured our first meeting not so one-sidedly prepared.

“Glad to see you made it here safely,” he said. He turned a small bird figurine to be facing outwardly upon a shelf. “I was just on my way out from talking with your father.”

“On your way out…” I folded my arms. “Right. And what business do you have here, anyway?”

“Well,” he said. “I’m sure you know all about it by now, since you’re so invested in the goings on around here.”

His words were sharp, and I felt my body grow tense. It wasn’t the thought-out, mature, and collected reunion   I had intended at all.

“The Gordon ranch is looking to expand, and the McGarity farm has some great things to offer.”

“Excuse me?” My voice raised. “You can’t be serious.”

Matthew continued, seemingly unphased. “For one, it’s a more direct route to get to the Sakatchee River. It would open up more land for grazing. More than that, it would help your father…”