Not Quite Mine

by Lyla Payne

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also By Lyla Payne

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thank You!

  Piacere Princes

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Lyla Payne

  About the Author

  Copyright 2016 by Lyla Payne

  Cover by Lyla Payne, Photography by Lyla Payne

  Developmental and Line Editing: Danielle Poiesz at Double Vision Editorial

  Copyediting: Shannon Page

  Proofreading: Mary Ziegenhorn, Diane Thede, Cheryl Heinrich

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Also by LYLA PAYNE

  WHITMAN UNIVERSITY

  Broken at Love

  By Referral Only

  Be My Downfall

  Staying On Top

  Living the Dream

  Going for Broke (published in Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology)

  LOWCOUNTRY MYSTERIES

  Not Quite Dead

  Not Quite Cold

  Not Quite True

  Quite Curious

  Not Quite Gone

  Not Quite Clear

  Quite Precarious

  Not Quite Right

  Not Quite Mine

  THE PIACERE PRINCES

  The Playboy Prince (July 26, 2016)

  The Dutiful Prince (September, 2016)

  The Crooked Prince (December, 2016)

  Mistletoe & Mr. Right

  Sleigh Bells & Second Chances

  SECRETS DON’T MAKE FRIENDS

  Secrets Don’t Make Friends

  Secrets Don’t Make Survivors

  Secrets Don’t Make Lovers (October, 2016)

  Young Adult Novels Written as TRISHA LEIGH

  THE LAST YEAR

  Whispers in Autumn

  Winter Omens

  Betrayals in Spring

  Summer Ruins

  THE CAVY FILES

  Gypsy

  Alliance

  Buried

  THE HISTORIANS

  Return Once More

  Exist Once More (November, 2016)

  Chapter One

  “Are you sure you don’t want to just let this go?” Beau asks, his big hands on my hips as he tugs me against him for another kiss.

  My lips linger on his, enjoying the salty, toothpaste-y taste of his mouth and the warmth of his arms around me. We’ve had a whole, wonderful weekend without any interruptions, but now it’s Monday. He needs to get to work, and I can’t ignore the trembling seed of guilt in my belly any longer.

  I pull away with a sigh, drinking in his handsome face. “I probably should let it go, but I feel bad for getting Travis fired. The least I can do is try to explain before he splits town.”

  “I suppose the man deserves an apology, even if he technically quit.” He kisses the tip of my nose, then helps me into the coat he pulled from the closet before distracting us both. “But he could have avoided all of this by simply telling you the truth from the start. Don’t forget that.”

  “Maybe.” I kiss him one last time, grab my purse off the floor, and then twist the knob on his front door. The chill of the late-November wind washes over me, cooling the blood he so skillfully heated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I promised Amelia we would spend the evening together, just the two of us. It’s been too long since we relaxed together, and even though she’s doing better, I’m struggling to shake the fear of the past months and let her be. My constant calls and texts started to annoy her a week ago, but I can’t help it. She was kidnapped, for god’s sake, and that’s after we lived through the poisoning and sleepwalking.

  “I love you, Gracie Anne.”

  “Love you, too, Mr. Mayor.” I shoot him a smile over my shoulder, then climb into my Honda.

  Beau gives me a wave as I back out of the driveway, then point my car toward the house Travis rents on the other side of town. It’s early, but I need to see him before it’s time to report to the library. And besides, he’s never struck me as the sort of person who indulges in sleeping late.

  Then again, if we really are related, he’s probably prone to depression when faced with the spitballs life throws at us, so maybe he’s wallowing. No one has seen him since he resigned almost a week ago now. Amelia went to check on him the day before Thanksgiving, but he either wasn’t home or refused to answer the door.

  I stop at Westies and get us both a café au lait and a couple of croissants. It’s the closest thing to donuts they have, and he is a cop. Maybe the delicious smell of pastries will draw him out of hiding, like a raccoon to fresh garbage. Bearing gifts is the best way to show up when one is planning to grovel and apologize, after all. Everyone knows that.

  Beau is more annoyed than I am over Travis being in town all this time and failing to tell Amelia or me that he’s here because he thought he was my half-brother. I understand the fear of being denied something you crave—acceptance, friendship, family. Grams and Gramps had been constants in my life until they passed. With a mother like Fe and the falling out that happened between Amelia and me—not to mention the loss of Will, voluntary or not—who knows how much more baggage I’d be lugging if Grams and Gramps hadn’t been there for me.

  I pull up to the house on the “wrong” side of the tracks. That’s how we grew up referring to the area, even though there are no actual railroad tracks near Heron Creek. Leo’s family lived nearby when we were kids, and I suppose maybe they still do. I sneak a glance toward the faded-blue, single-story home a ways down the block. Its size still confounds me, like one of those cars that holds eighteen clowns at the circus. How all of those boys crammed into that place eludes me still, but now it would just be his mother, I suppose.

  Enough stalling, Gracie. Face the music.

  I balance the coffees and pastry bag in one hand and raise the other to knock on Travis’s front door. The rippled glass window is straight out of the seventies, and I can’t help but wonder why he chose to live here. The police department doesn’t pay six figures, but the money is decent for Will, so it must be a little better for a detective who was brought in from out of town. He could have chosen someplace nicer, or closer to the station, and the fact that he didn’t makes me wonder if he doesn’t think he deserves those things.

  Sadness pulls at my heart. Travis may or may not be related to me, but that doesn’t make much difference in terms of how I feel about betraying him to Clete. Now he’s resigned his position in town, and there’s no doubt in my mind it’s because of what Clete knows about his past in Arkansas. Whatever that is.

  Silence hangs over the early morning. The sun has barely peered over the river and a misty fog hovers over the pitted street, casting an eerie feeling over the day. The sound of shuffling on the other side of the door tips me off that he’s home, and I screw up my determination. If
Travis thinks he can out-stubborn me, he hasn’t gotten to know me as well as I thought.

  “Travis, I know you’re in there. If you keep pretending you’re not, all that’s going to happen is that I’m going to drink your coffee and eat your pastry. You might be mad, but fattening me up is a little long-term as far as revenge goals, don’t you think?”

  He would also make me late for work, but since he no longer has a job to go to, I don’t bring that up.

  A sigh works its way free when my words have no effect on the man hiding inside, and I spin around and sit, opening the bag to make good on my threats. The concrete is cold, the chill seeping right through my dress pants and transferring to my butt, but the coffee helps.

  The sound of the door creaking open freezes the croissant halfway to my mouth, but then I shove it in, trying to act as if I expected him to come out the whole time.

  Travis sits next to me and holds out a hand. I press the second coffee into his palm without a word, then eat the rest of my pastry. He takes a couple of sips, then reaches into the paper bag between us for the second treat.

  “So you are motivated by anything that resembles a donut. Interesting.”

  He snorts. For some reason, I expected him to be angrier but he just seems…beaten. And that makes me angry.

  “Are you just going to take this lying down, then?” I demand.

  “The crack about cops and donuts?” He shrugs. “I’ve heard them all. You’re going to have to try harder.”

  I roll my eyes and brush the leftover croissant flakes from my fingers. “Not the jab… Clete.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s blackmailing you into quitting your job,” I say slowly, trying not to shake him for still acting as if I don’t know everything.

  Okay, not everything. But enough.

  Travis turns to me, his lips pressed into a line and hurt swirling in his storm-gray eyes. “And how would he be able to blackmail me, Graciela?”

  I wince and set my coffee down on the step, my cheeks burning with shame. “I’m sorry, Travis.”

  “That’s what you came here to say? That you’re sorry?”

  I nod. “Yes. Clete’s been after me for a while to help him get dirt on you but I couldn’t really find anything, and besides, he wasn’t coming through for me so I felt okay about letting it go.”

  “Imagine that, a bootlegging criminal not holding up his end of the bargain.”

  “Yes, well, when Amelia disappeared, I needed his help again, but he wouldn’t do it unless I promised to get him something on you. I still didn’t have anything, but then you told me…what you told me. The next time he came by, I was panicked and in a hurry to get out of the house and it just kind of came out.”

  “Let me get this straight. I have to quit my job, to move again because it just kind of came out?”

  “I’m really not very good at keeping secrets,” I confess, hoping to lighten the mood. What’s done is done, no use crying over spilled milk, and all of that.

  Travis’s shoulders slump, the defeated air magnified. My seed of guilt burrows deeper.

  “I’m sorry, okay? It’s been a crazy couple of months but things are settling down now. If you want to talk about Felicia, or your parents’ version of your adoption or whatever, I have time.”

  “Well, aren’t I the lucky guy,” he snaps, but there’s no gumption behind it.

  “I can’t turn back time, Travis. All I can do is try to help you do what you came to do, now that I know.”

  “Well, I can’t stay. Not all of us have the luxury of family money.”

  It sounds like a slam on Beau, but I let it slide. This time. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen some not so pretty results of your help a few times.”

  “We’ve already talked about why you can’t be Felicia’s son. It doesn’t have anything to do with any idealistic visions of my mother, either. There’s no doubt in my mind that if your parents say she’s the one who brought you to them and whose name is on your birth certificate, that’s exactly what happened.”

  His brow furrows in confusion. “But you don’t think she’s my mother.”

  “No. I’m not even ready to say we’re related, but if we are, it has to be through my father.”

  “Frank Fournier… The infamous bank robber.”

  “The one and only,” I mutter, picking up my cup and swallowing more of the life-giving liquid. I’ve only encountered one café au lait that rivals Westies’, and sadly, I haven’t been back to Cafe du Monde in New Orleans in several years. It’s past time for a visit, to be honest.

  Then again, there’s not a doubt in my mind that city is crawling with ghosts. And based on the history of New Orleans, they’re likely not as charming or genteel as ours here in South Carolina.

  Maybe I could put off that visit awhile longer.

  “Now that I’m no longer the head of the law in this town, you can go ahead and admit you’ve been in contact with the guy,” Travis says dryly. “Have you asked him?”

  “I’ve asked him about you, yes, but he’s rather keen on avoiding the subject.” I sigh, peering through the small hole in the plastic lid of my coffee cup. Empty. “He’s not going to tell me anything unless he wants to, and at the moment, he definitely doesn’t.”

  “What makes you think that he could have convinced your mother to pretend a baby is hers when it must have belonged to another woman?” He tips his head. “That’s illegal, you know.”

  “Yes, believe it or not, I am actually dimly aware of laws.”

  “You just don’t think they apply to you.”

  I shrug. “Not if it’s inconvenient.”

  He snorts and took a few more sips of his own coffee, choosing not to reply.

  I shake my head. “You didn’t know my mother. She was about the furthest thing possible from a traditional woman, and I can’t see jealousy being her thing. Felicia had some…peculiar ideas about love.”

  “What does that mean?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

  “It means nothing surprises me when it comes to her. Even potentially stolen babies.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. The sun is climbing higher, getting brighter in the cloudless morning, burning away the fog and blinding me in the process. I squint, trying to ignore the whisper of an offer from the recesses of my mind. I spend the next several heartbeats looking for ways around the suggestion but come up with nothing.

  The truth is that I’m curious as to my mother’s involvement with a strange baby, too. So while what I’m about to say will assuage my guilt, it could also sate my curiosity. Two birds, one stone. Maybe a slightly invasive medical procedure could be worth it.

  “I’ll do a DNA kit with you, if you want.”

  Travis startles so hard the lid pops off his coffee. Some of it sloshes onto his hand, but it can’t be that hot anymore. He raises one eyebrow my direction, ignoring the mess. “It won’t tell us how we’re related, just if we are. If you really believe it’s not Felicia, we’ll still need to talk to Frank.”

  “It’s a start. If we know we’re related, it might give me some leverage with him.”

  “I’m not sure your father is the type to give in to leverage,” Travis comments, an expression of distaste on his face.

  “Careful. He might be your father, too.” I get up after checking the time on my phone. Ten minutes to get to the library. After skipping more than a week with Amelia’s disappearance and the fact that LeighAnn killed at my job working fewer than three hours per day, being late seems unwise. “I’m going to let you figure out how we get these kits or whatever since you don’t have a job.” I shoot him a small smirk. “Too soon?”

  Travis just shakes his head and puts the lid back on his coffee. I hand over my trash and then trudge back to my car, unable to stop chuckling under my breath. Maybe having a little brother wouldn’t be so terrible, after all.

  I decide there’s time to stop back at Wes
ties and grab Amelia some tea—and another café au lait for me—as long as the line isn’t too bad. The street has been quiet since the weather turned cold and chased Leo and his guitar off the street, and no matter how much shit I give him for sucking, I sort of miss running into him.

  Damn winter. It steals my heat, then my friends, and ends with my will to live.

  Inside the landmark coffee shop, I stop short at a commotion in the corner, immobilized by the sight of Daria holding court. There are five old ladies gathered around her and not one of them is tittering about her bright fuchsia hair.

  “Your dog bit me!” she hollers at old Mrs. Blount. The woman has short, blue hair that looks like it recently received a perm, glasses so thick they look like Coke bottles, and no hearing aids…which means she’s probably blissfully unaware of being berated by my strange friend, the medium.

  “She doesn’t have a dog,” Laurel points out, her red-orange hair looking quite normal compared to Daria’s pink.

  We really need a new hairdresser in this town.

  “She does, too,” Daria counters. “A ratty hound with brown spots and pointy-ass teeth.”

  “You mean Buster,” Dorothy chimes in. “He up and died.”

  “Ran straight into a car like his nose turnt into a magnet. Decided he couldn’t take one more day being hollered at by a deaf woman.” Laurel glanced up toward heaven, either to pay her respects to Buster or to prove that she’s telling the God’s honest truth.

  Mrs. Blount is stirring milk into her tea and ignoring the commotion. The other two women sit quietly, looks of glee on their wrinkled faces at the excitement.

  Sue and Honey were friends with my Grams, and the fact that they’re lesbians is the worst-kept secret in Heron Creek. This is the South, where people usually chatter about things like that, but for some reason, no one seems to pay them any mind. I think it’s because they’re old, though I can’t say what that has to do with anything.