Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities #8) - Shannon Messenger Page 0,139

I,” Bronte admitted, tearing his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “Apparently Miss Foster has chosen to ignore my vehement recommendation that she stay focused on her far more pressing assignments, and has instead recruited her teammates into assisting with her ill-conceived search for her biological parents. And thanks to the unfortunate coincidence that she and I both share a rare ability, they’ve fixated on me. So I got to endure a rather ridiculous meeting with Miss Vacker the other day, wherein she accused me of participating in Project Moonlark and had Miss Heks test the veracity of my answer.” His eyes narrowed at Sophie. “Which is why I feel the need to say, once more for the official record—or as official as we’re going to get in these circumstances: I am not your genetic father, Miss Foster. By any means. And if you need to verify that I’m telling the truth, ask Councillor Oralie.”

Oralie stumbled away from both of them, shaking her head hard enough to tangle some of her ringlets. “I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“Neither do I,” Bronte noted. “And yet, here I am.”

Oralie’s rosy cheeks turned very, very pale. “If anyone found out…”

“They won’t,” Bronte assured her, “because there’s nothing to find out. Isn’t that right, Miss Foster? This whole convoluted theory was simply the wild imaginings of a few foolish teenagers. And now that they’ve seen it for its absurdity, they’re going to let it go. Aren’t they?”

His lips quirked with the tiniest hint of a smile when Sophie nodded.

“Excellent.”

“It is,” Sophie agreed, feeling her temper click back on now that the shock was finally wearing off. She held Bronte’s stare as she told him, “It’s a huge relief.”

In fact, her head felt lighter than it had in days.

Minus twenty pounds of worry.

“Good,” Bronte told her, his familiar scowl returning. “Because this is the end of this conversation. Understood? I want your word that no mention of this will be made to anyone else, ever again. Not to me. Not to your friends or family. Certainly not to anyone new.” He strode closer, looming over her. “And I also want you to promise me that you’ll listen this time and stop this foolish quest before you cause irreparable damage—and I’m not referring to any challenges you’ll cause for the elves who actually are your genetic parents, though you’ll likely destroy them with the scandal. Think of how many crucial tasks you’ve already neglected because you’ve allowed yourself to be so distracted—and before you try to deny it, keep in mind that I gathered an update from Miss Heks about her meeting with Lady Zillah once we’d moved past the ridiculous accusation. And not only did she and Wylie acquire several pieces of information that could prove vital in our visit to Loamnore today, but she also mentioned that you’d never bothered to follow up with them. Nor had you responded when they’d reached out to you. And that kind of sloppy leadership cannot continue, Miss Foster. Councillor Oralie and I are happy to help you set up some systems for checks and balances—but none of them will matter if you choose to be sidetracked. It’s time for you to focus, before someone gets hurt.”

He was absolutely right.

And Sophie hated him for it.

She also hated herself for hating him for it—and for failing so hard at everything lately.

All the time she’d spent stressing and obsessing about her genetic parents and matchmaking—and what did she have to show for it?

Another disproved theory about her biological father, and a boyfriend she’d neglected so badly that he might not even be her boyfriend anymore.

And yet, despite all that, she still wasn’t willing to promise what Bronte wanted.

So she told him, “I promise I’m going to adjust my priorities and concentrate on the bigger problems.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice what you’re doing there, Miss Foster,” Bronte countered.

“I’m sure you do,” she agreed. “But wouldn’t you rather I be honest with you?”

He blew out a breath. “I suppose. So long as you’re also ready to take your position as Regent more seriously.”

She stared at her lap, tugging at the stupid ruffles on her shorts, which probably made it harder for him to believe her when she said, “I am.”

“Good,” Bronte told her, frowning when he glanced at Oralie, who still stood several steps away, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Then go inside and get ready. To play the part, you first need to look the part—isn’t that right,