Rumor Has It

by Jill Shalvis

  “How many days left?”

  “Four.”

  Her dad tossed a Chinese, an Italian, and a Mexican menu onto the counter. “Don’t you think you’ve wasted enough of your life raising me? Come on, Kate, it’s your turn to fly.”

  “Dad, we both know I can’t go anywhere. Not until you can be the parent again.”

  He turned off the oven and waved the oven mitts around to dissipate the smoke. “I am being the parent, Kate.”

  “You just about set the house on fire. Again.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “The fire alarm didn’t even go off.”

  That’s when the fire alarm went off.

  This was followed by a solid twenty minutes of insanity. First Tommy came racing into the kitchen and straight out the back door, where he grabbed the garden hose, cranked it on, and then tried to reenter the kitchen to be the hero.

  Then Ashley made a dramatic entry, coughing and waving a hand in front of her face. “I just washed my hair! Do you know how bad smoke sticks to freshly washed hair?” she shrieked over the fire alarm.

  Kate climbed up onto the cabinets and waved a magazine at the fire alarm until it stopped.

  Her father called the fire department to ward off the emergency run.

  Much later, after they’d ordered Chinese, cleaned up the kitchen, gone through some of Ashley’s homework, and dealt with an algebra crisis, Kate sat next to her father on the couch.

  He stroked a hand over her hair in silent apology for the night. With a sigh she set her head on his shoulder.

  “I want you to go to UCSD,” he said quietly.

  She was still reeling from her last conversation with Griffin. He’d accused her of being afraid to go for the master’s program.

  And then there’d been his other bomb. The not leaving bomb . . .

  But did that change anything? Her heart said oh hell yes. Her brain said absolutely not. His staying couldn’t, shouldn’t, change a thing. She’d gotten what she’d wanted from him. A good time. A great time. The end. Right? “I want me to go, too,” she told her dad. “But—”

  “No buts,” he said. “I know you’re afraid we’ll fall apart, and who can blame you? But we’re going to be okay, Kate. You’ve spoiled us long enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He sighed. “You’ve been a steady rock for the family when I couldn’t be, always showing how important and valuable each of us is. But it’s okay to move on with your life. We’re ready to try things on our own for a bit.”

  “But Ashley’s college and Tommy—”

  “Honey, taking care of people isn’t doing everything for them. That’s enabling. We’ll manage. We’ll miss you,” he said, his voice a little thick now. “So much. But you have to go. For all of us.”

  She swallowed hard. “You’re sure.”

  “No.” He gave a low laugh. “You know we’ll call you too much. We’ll drive you crazy from afar. But you need to go.” He hugged her. “I’m proud of you. And I love you, Kate. So much.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  Tommy came into the room as Superman complete with red cape and turned on the TV. Then Ashley stuck her head in the room. “Kate, where’s my cheerleading uniform?”

  “Again?” Kate asked. “You lost it again?”

  Her dad put his hand on Kate’s knee. “I’ve got this,” he said. “I did laundry this morning. It’s been washed and is all ready for practice tomorrow.”

  “Impressive,” Kate murmured.

  He smiled and pointed to his phone. “I downloaded a homemaker app. It gives me daily lists.”

  Ashley rolled her eyes and vanished.

  “In five seconds she’ll be yelling thank you,” her dad said. “Five, four, three, two—”

  “Noooo!” came a bloodcurdling scream from the direction of the laundry room.

  Tommy turned up the TV.

  Ashley reappeared in the doorway with her cheerleading uniform—which had been shrunk to the size of a small child.

  “Shit,” her dad said.

  “Shit,” Tommy said.

  * * *

  Later that night, Kate stood at her kitchen counter eating ice cream, having a stare down contest with the scholarship letter lying on the tile.

  Was she afraid? Hell yes. But anyone would be, she told herself.

  Four more days . . .

  The question was: Could she do it in spite of her fears? Could she really walk away? For a year?

  Not walk away, she corrected. She’d still be a part of her family’s life, a part of Sunshine. She’d always have that.

  Wouldn’t she?

  The late-night knock surprised her. Moving through her townhouse, she pulled the front door open a crack and squeaked in surprise when Griffin pushed his way in.

  “You didn’t look to see who it was,” he said, not sounding at all happy about that.

  She shut the door behind him. “Well, hello to you, too.”

  He turned to face her, hands on hips, brow arched, and she sighed. “Okay, so I assumed it’d be Ashley with another homework emergency,” she admitted. “Or my dad demanding to know where I’d hid his stash. Or—”

  “Stash?” Grif’s frown deepened. “I thought he’s sober.”

  “He is. I meant his potato chips.” She shook her head. “And not that I’m not happy to see you, but what brings you here?”

  His gaze caught on the scholarship letter on the counter and nudged it. “You accept yet?”

  She went back to her ice cream. “You’re starting to sound like my dad and Ryan.”

  “You should do it, Kate.”

  Yes, but I don’t know if I can walk away from you for a year. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She licked her spoon clean and then felt Griffin come close, so that their toes touched. Well, her toes, his work boots. Tipping her head up, she met his gaze.

  “You should do it,” he said again, softly.

  She took him in, from his hair—way longer than a military cut now—to the healing scar, to his firm-but-oh-so-giving mouth. Her heart sped up a little as she let her biggest fear escape. “I’ll be gone a year.”

  “So what?”

  She sucked in a breath at that. “So what?” she repeated. Ouch . . .

  His hands gripped her arms. “I’m saying I don’t care how long it takes, Kate. I’m saying so what. It’s something you want, and I’m one hundred percent in favor of you doing anything you want.”

  “But . . .” She held his gaze. “This. Are you saying you don’t want . . . this?”

  “No. I’m saying this isn’t going to hold you back.”

  “It’s a year, Griffin.”

  He put his hands on her hips and lifted her to the counter, then stepped between her legs and cupped her face. “All my life,” he said, “people have been waiting on me. My sister. My dad. Any woman in my life.” He paused and let that sink in. “I think I can do the waiting for a change.”

  She stared at him, her hands slack as he took the ice cream from them. “You okay?” he murmured.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I really didn’t see you coming.”

  “Back at you.” He slid one hand up her back and into her hair, the other arm wrapping low on her hips so that he could lift her up.

  She wrapped her legs around him and cupped his face as he carried her into the bedroom. “You’re good for me,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

  Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead to hers. She clutched at him. “So good,” she whispered. And she spent the dark hours of the night showing him so, over and over . . .

  * * *

  The next day Griffin sat in the ranch office staring at the computer screen until the numbers blurred. Holly and Adam were spending the day looking at houses, and Grif was supposedly holding down the fort.

  His mind wasn’t on the task. Instead it was on a certain strawberry blond second-grade teacher who’d blown his mind—and other parts—all night long.
He’d extracted a promise from her at dawn as he’d left her boneless and sated in her bed—dinner tonight.

  Another date.

  It was crazy. And necessary. As necessary as air.

  He accessed the payroll accounts to get that running—a pain in his ass—and was immediately stymied by the lack of a password. He searched and found a sticky note from Holly that his dad had the password in his desk.

  Simple enough. He looked down. Thing One was sleeping on his left foot. Thing Two was on his right. They didn’t have a foot fetish; they had a Grif fetish. “We’re on the move guys.”

  Neither dog so much as blinked.

  Pushing away from Holly’s desk, Grif pulled his feet free and stood up. Both dogs leaped to their feet like they’d been shot, and scrambled to follow Grif to his dad’s office.

  Empty.

  Grif walked over to the pristine desk and pulled open the top drawer. No sticky note with a password, just a manila file labeled: Medical Shit.

  The two words, reeking of cynicism and annoyance, had him opening the file because it would be just like the senior Reid to have had another heart attack and not told a damn soul including his own kids.

  There was a stack of EOBs—explanation of benefits—at least an inch thick. Grif scanned the dates and relaxed marginally.

  All from Donald’s last heart attack. Nothing new.

  Grif set those aside and skimmed the rest, and then his gaze caught on what should have been an innocuous detail—his dad’s blood type. Grif’s mom was an O. The paper in front of him stated that Donald was an O as well, which was surprising because that meant their children would also be O.

  But Grif was not. He was blood type A.

  And as he knew from the doctor’s lecture at career day, when two people with blood type O mate, the result was always blood type O offspring.

  Always.

  Thing One nudged at him, adding a little let’s-go-out-and-play whine. Thing Two joined in.

  But Grif just stared at the file.

  He wasn’t Donald Reid’s biological child.

  Twenty-four

  Grif didn’t know how long he sat there at his dad’s desk, memories barraging him. Being five years old and standing in front of this very desk, a muddy frog dripping from each hand as his father yelled at him for his “un-Reid-like behavior.”

  Or at age twelve being caught joyriding in his dad’s quad without permission in the middle of the night by a deputy sheriff. Donald Reid’s idea of punishment for that had been to leave Grif in police custody until the next day, in a cell with some serious delinquents five years his senior who’d enjoyed tormenting him during those long hours before dawn.

  At seventeen he’d been pulled over on prom night with a bag of weed in his truck—and the mayor’s daughter. Donald had let the law fully prosecute Grif that time, and six months later when he’d turned eighteen, he’d left Sunshine, still thoroughly pissed off.

  He wasn’t exactly sure what he was now, but pissed off didn’t begin to describe it.

  “What the hell are you doing in here? This is my office.”

  Grif looked up as Donald strode into the room looking pretty pissed off himself.

  Perfect, they were going to start off hot. Worked for Grif, who stood, medical file in hand.

  “Hey,” Donald said. “That’s mine.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Donald’s face went red, the precursor to a full-blown temper. “Get the hell out.”

  “Oh, I intend to. But this first.” Grif tossed the open file on the desk.

  Donald stood on the other side of the desk, hands on hips. “Why are you searching through my things?”

  “I wasn’t searching through your things. I was trying to do payroll, and Holly told me you had the password.”

  “So you just helped yourself to my desk to find it?”

  “You weren’t here and it had to be done. Dad.”

  Donald finally clued in to the fact that he wasn’t the only one running a little temper. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You,” Grif said.

  Donald narrowed his eyes. “You want to be very careful how you speak to me, boy. I can still take you.”

  Boy. It was always “boy” or “kid,” or on occasion “little asshole punk.” There’d been other nicknames over the years, none flattering. Not that he’d deserved one, Grif could admit.

  But apparently, he’d never deserved “son” either. “You’re careful not to call me son.”

  Donald shook his head. “What the hell are you mumbling about?”

  Grif pointed to the blood work in Donald’s medical file. Tapped the blood type. “This.”

  Donald stared down at the file. “I already told you why I didn’t tell you about my little heart thing.”

  “It was a heart attack, not a little heart thing, and I’m not talking about that.” Grif shoved his fingers through his hair and pushed away from the desk. He went to the window and stared out at the land that he’d actually started to believe could really be his home.

  An illusion. This place wasn’t his, and he sure as hell didn’t belong here.

  “The password’s in the other drawer,” Donald said.

  “Forget the password. Jesus.” Grif turned to face the man who for better or worse had been the only father he’d ever known. “I’m talking about the fact that you’re not my biological father.”

  The high color in Donald’s cheeks drained, and he put a hand out to grip the desk.

  Grif searched for some sympathy for the man but found none. “So you knew.”

  “Yes.”

  Yes. Just like that. Grif was having a hard time breathing. “I had a right to know, too.”

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  The silence shimmered between them for a moment and, if anything, made Griffin all the more furious. “Bullshit,” he said. “Mom’s gone. Why keep it a secret?”

  Donald said nothing, and Grif could actually feel his blood pressure change. “What the hell, Dad—” He broke off. “Or should I say Donald?”

  The man had the good grace to wince. “I’m still your dad,” he said. “There’s no need for all this melodrama.”

  “Melodrama?” Grif’s head began to drum in tune to his pulse. “I want to know who my real father is.”

  “Was.”

  “He’s dead, then?”

  Donald crossed his arms, his expression going bulldog stubborn. Grif recognized the look from years of butting heads with that expression.