Fold

I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, but I do know talking about a baby that's not mine seems easier than talking about my father, or what I overheard him tell the police about Kyle.

Someone on the outside looking in would assume Asher and I are close. But the truth is, although I do care about him, I'll always keep him at an arm's length.

Because I keep everyone at a distance.

“Prest—”

“Part of me regrets having the test done now, but I couldn't take it, Asher. I needed to know.”

Emotions, the kind that can bring a man to tears, threaten to spill over, but I stuff them down.

I haven't cried, not once since I was seven, and I don't intend to now.

“I started talking to the baby every night when Becca went to sleep. Telling it stories. Promising him or her that I was going to be a better father than mine ever was.”

I blow out a breath as I recall all those late nights I spent making promises to a kid that wasn't mine.

Maybe this is my karma for doubting that he was in the first place. The universe's way of saying, fuck you.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You will. When the time is right.”

I lean against the headrest. “I thought that time was going to be now.” I look out the window and notice another two inches have fallen since we left the hospital. “Maybe I just wanted something to give me the push I needed to clean my life up and get my act together.”

I don't realize I've said that aloud until he says, “Well, you know what they say. Admitting you have a problem is the first step.” He gives me a pointed look. “You'll get through this.”

I'm about to tell him there's nothing for me to get through because I'm fine, but pink hair and my favorite angry scowl flash through my mind. Swear that girl invades my thoughts at the most random times.

However, it dawns on me that I have a valid reason to see her again.

I could drive back right now and see her.

A sharp gust of snowy wind blows as Asher steps out of the car. “Looks like the weather is getting worse.”

A

“I know. I was thinking about heading to Woodside tonight, but I think I'll wait for tomorrow.”

He laughs. “I can't wait to see the look on Becca's face when she sees her shit all over campus.”

My brother's more warped than I give him credit for. “What the hell is wrong with you? I might be an asshole, but I'm not tossing a pregnant chick out on the street in the middle of winter. No matter how much I can't stand her.”

She might deserve that, but the baby doesn't.

He raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you going to Woodside tomorrow?”

A long pause stretches between us before I finally utter, “To see Kit.”

Since I don't want him reading anything more into this, because my feelings about her are mine and mine alone, I add, “I'm not the only one Becca hurt and Kit has a right to know that the baby isn't mine.”

I'm thankful when he doesn't pry further and taps the hood of my car. “Drive safe, little brother.”

I salute him. “Call me if you need me. I'll answer.”

A familiar urge snakes up my spine as I drive off. If there was ever a night I needed the escape, this is it.

I make a left that will bring me to the highway, but when my car veers to the opposite side of the road due to the snow, I'm reminded that not only is it hazardous to be driving, but I can no longer rely on my father's money because he's a goddamn carrot.

Or can I?

As it turns out, it's a blessing in disguise that my father either couldn't or wouldn't transfer all his money to me in one lump sum when I demanded it last night.

Not only because it would have looked suspicious as hell right now, but because I know I'm the primary beneficiary of his will.

It used to be Asher, but after the falling out him and my father had, I was upgraded.

However, I can't celebrate just yet, because there's still a very distinct possibility that he transferred an undisclosed sum of money into my account like he said he was going to, and that alone will look odd. Unless I can come up with a valid reason as to why he did it. But in order to do that, I need to figure out how much money I'd be covering for in the first place.

Christ, I wish I went ahead and had him offed instead of blackmailing him now. Would have made things a heck of a lot easier for me.

I skid to a stop, pull out my phone, and log into my bank account. Not knowing what he did or didn't do is driving me crazy.

I'm relieved when my savings shows that I have a little over twelve grand—exactly what I had the last time I logged in.

Tossing my phone in the console, I breathe a sigh of relief...until I remember that it takes over twenty-four hours to process a transfer.

I slam the steering wheel in frustration. There's no way to know for sure what he did unless I look at his account.

Shifting the car back into drive, I decide to make the short trip to his house and find out.

It takes me longer than I anticipated to get here due to the roads, but after I enter the code on the keypad and open the front door, I march straight to his office.

I'm halfway up the staircase when I hear footsteps approaching. “Hey, Ms. Panfile.”

Ms. Panfile has been our live-in housekeeper since we moved here six years ago.

She's also one of the only people on the planet who doesn't a

“Preston!” she yells in her broken English, rushing up the stairs.

I'm tempted to ask her what's wrong, but then she cries out, “Mr. Holden.”

I shrug since there's no point in pretending to be sad about it. “Yup. He's toast.”

Sheer confusion mars her face. “Hungry?”

“No.” I point upstairs. “I need to take care of some things.”

She gives my arm a squeeze. “Mrs. Holden home soon.”

My neck prickles. “When? I thought she was stuck on a boat?”

“Sì.” She holds up three fingers. “Three weeks. But tomorrow night she come back home.” She clutches her chest. “So sad.”

Yeah, I bet she is. It's no secret my mother gets more money from him being alive than she ever will upon his death.

My father was many things, but naive about his sham of a marriage wasn't one of them. That prenup is iron-clad. She'll be lucky if she gets to keep her car and the condo in St. Barts when all is said and done.

I can practically hear her praying for a miracle from the middle of the Atlantic. Maybe if she was a decent mother, instead of being so wrapped up in her trophy wife role and his money, she'd have my sympathy and support. Instead, all I feel is even more relieved that I didn't marry Becca.

Unlike my parents, I'll never marry someone for convenience or money.

Or because I'm being threatened by a manipulating bitch.

When I marry, it will be because I love her more than I love myself.

Because I value her heart more than my own.

But since neither of those things are on my bucket list, I don't foresee it being an issue.