Billionaire Protector - Alexa Hart Page 0,15

Granted, he’d spent the majority of his time there before as well, but now it was nearly his constant habitat. Occasionally he’d wander out for a trail walk, usually just to muse over my mother and days gone by. But for the most part, Paul Hardick had become a fixture of that single, dark, cozy space where all the words had flowed out of him over the years. “They flow just like my River does.” He used to say that often before my mother passed. I hadn’t heard him say it even once after.

I nearly ran straight into Preston as he was exiting this exact room.

“Shit, bud. Sorry. Didn’t see ya there,” Preston apologized, not slowing down in the slightest as he headed for the staircase.

“Where ya goin’? What’s wrong?” I had barely seen his face, but I could sense that something was “off” with my brother. Preston whipped around, smiling widely, but not quite seeming to mean it.

“Same ol’, same ol’, little buddy. Getting an eloquent lecture from our father. Apparently, I was in a tabloid. Some club. Girls. Booze. Not a big deal. But everything is a big deal to Paul Lincoln Hardick,” Preston lowered his voice as he said our father’s full name, mocking the serious tenor Dad often spoke in.

“Oh,” I said blankly. Preston shrugged and took off down the stairs – refusing to give the issue any more attention, and I decided that right then probably wasn’t the right time to tell him about Anne. I then realized it probably wasn’t the right time to talk to Dad about Anne, either. I would have retreated outdoors, but I’d already been heard.

“Penn! Come talk to me!” Dad called out pleasantly. It was a fine line to walk – knowing that Dad favored me a bit over my brothers (and especially over Preston). I enjoyed the relationship I had with my father. I just wished we all could share the same sentiments toward each other.

But I also knew that wasn’t how people worked.

Dad was leaning back in his ancient, worn armchair, grinning broadly at me as I plopped down in an equally ancient and worn leather recliner. He called it his “nap chair”, and I’d loved it since I was a kid.

“You have something to tell me?” Dad asked calmly.

He always knows. It’s uncanny.

“Yep. I asked a girl to come to your party with me Saturday night.” There wasn’t any point in hem-hawing around it.

“Oh? And who might this lovely young lady be?” He was smiling wider now, sitting up straight and putting his elbows on the giant desk. The desk is older than I am.

“Anne,” I returned, smiling myself. I couldn’t think of her without some electric, whirling sensation running through my body. It was like a roller-coaster, making me impossibly giddy and mildly nauseous all at once.

“Anne. That’s a fine, classic name. Beautiful. Anne whom?” He didn’t mean it to be nosy – was just asking the next logical question that it had occurred to him to ask, but I was instantly tense.

I’d considered lying. Just picking a name – any name – and throwing it out there for my family’s satisfaction. Later, when I actually knew the real answer to this question, I could simply say I’d misheard her before. It probably would have worked too if I wasn’t such a shit liar.

I sighed, admitting defeat to myself. “I don’t know her last name yet. She was shy – super shy – and I didn’t want to overwhelm her with questions,” I admitted. I left out the part about not even thinking once of making the inquiry to begin with. Anne had been enough, in and of herself, to overtake all other thoughts – logical or otherwise.

“Hmmm,” Dad replied, straightening a stack of papers to his left. I knew that sound. “Hm” was my father expressing his mild disapproval, but still giving me the benefit of the doubt by not actually saying anything negative. Yet.

“She seems like a really sweet girl, Dad. I met her at the hardware store over in Corydon. She works there. I didn’t tell her my last name either, so... it’s fair,” I defended, desperately wanting my father to at least give Anne a chance.

“You never tell people your last name, Penn. You’re ashamed of it,” Dad observed, tapping a pencil against the wooden surface of his desktop.

“I’m not ashamed of our name, Dad,” I denied, shaking my head and growing frustrated much more quickly than I normally would have.