One Night, White Lies

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Look, buddy.” Tate’s voice shook with anger. “I appreciate the coffee but whatever scam you’re running, I’m not interested.”

  “Wait, Wes—”

  “It’s Tate. Leave me alone.” He looked at the business card gripped between his fingers and then tossed it, along with his untouched coffee, into the nearest trash can. “Don’t follow me or I’m calling the police.”

  Twenty-One

  Tate Duncan’s hands were shaking so badly on the steering wheel of his Mercedes he considered pulling over at the nearest curb and waiting for the sensation to pass. Instead he kept his hands wrapped around the leather and took in what he could see, hear, touch and smell.

  His name was Tate Duncan. His parents were William and Marion Duncan. His fiancée was Claire Waterson.

  He’d been adopted—and yes, he’d had an accent when he was a toddler. But his birth mother had given him up for adoption after his father had died, and then she’d died shortly after that. He had his birth parents’ death certificates, for Christ’s sake.

  “Scott and Natalie Winters.” He spoke his birth parents’ name aloud in the car, his voice sounding hollow and desperate. If what the stranger in the café had said to him was true, then that meant...what...his adoptive parents had lied to him his entire life? Or worse—had they arranged to have him kidnapped?

  “It’s ridiculous,” he said aloud, but his body betrayed him and the shakes in his arm started anew.

  He pulled into a hotel parking lot. He was in town on business today to finish up the plans for his new build on Spright Island, but now he’d rather take the ferry home and have the damn plans sent by courier.

  Fear and confusion swam in his bloodstream. The run-in with Reid left behind enough doubt that Tate touched the screen on the dashboard of his Mercedes and called his parents in Santa Clarita.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” his mother’s voice said over the speaker.

  “Mom.”

  “What’s wrong? You sound like something’s wrong.” Always the sensitive sort, Marion Duncan detected a problem immediately.

  “I’m going to tell you a story, and I don’t want you to interrupt until the end.” He carefully recounted what had happened at the coffee shop, sharing every detail except for one. What he didn’t tell his mother was that when that Reid guy shook his hand, Tate felt such a sense of peace it overwhelmed him. It was like seeing an old friend after years apart. And that, he realized, was exactly why he’d called his mom to tell her about what had happened. “Then I threw away the coffee and business card and walked out.”

  Tate raked his hands into his hair and waited for the silence to be interrupted by his mother’s chiming laughter. He hoped with every fiber of his being that she’d tell him Reid sounded like he was in need of psychiatric attention. Then she’d reassure Tate that everything was fine and tell him not to worry, and they’d talk about something else.

  Like his birthday plans for tomorrow night.

  Your birthday is tomorrow.

  How the hell had Reid known that? It had to be a scam. That was the only reasonable explanation.

  “Mom.” He said her name insistently, praying that the call had dropped or there was some other reason for her silence.

  “Tate, honey,” she managed, her tone so grave it sent chills skittering down his spine. “We need to talk.”

  Twenty-Two

  Drew was so excited she could burst clean open and out would spray gold confetti. Her smile had been incurable most of the day as she picked up the final details for Reid’s birthday dinner.

  She’d decided to call the chef she’d hired for the night and ask his specialty. Turned out it was a gorgonzola New York strip steak atop pureed vegetables and garlic potato wedges. It sounded so incredible she ordered the same dish for herself.

  Once the meal was decided, the only plans left to complete were decorations. Black and gold was the theme, and she’d spent the past hour hanging foil streamers and tying balloons to the barstools. The table was set in black and gold and white, and she planned on soft jazz as the background music.

  Once the restaurant was set and the staff of three had arrived, she changed in the women’s restroom. She’d chosen a red dress for the evening, forgoing her habit of being modest by wearing a plunging neckline. That, as much as the rest of tonight, was part of her gift for Reid.

  She was excited about giving him a new memory of his birthday. One that would stand out in his mind and make him smile. He’d know that she cared about him enough to make the effort, and, she hoped, he’d also have a glimpse of what their future together would look like.

  The past, however, was a tricky beast. Even in her current state of well-being and confidence, she had moments of fear and anxiety, and deep-seated feelings of not being good enough or pretty enough or worthy enough.

  Reid was a reminder that anything was possible. That the dream she’d once harbored in the quiet of her heart had come to fruition. They’d found each other at the perfect time, and she planned on showing him that tonight.

  And then she was going to tell him she was in love with him.

  She checked her phone, but no word from Reid despite her earlier texts. She called in case he was driving. No answer. She settled on sending another text: Starting at 7 sharp. Does that work for you?

  She watched the screen for a few moments but then decided not to be weird about it, filling the time by turning the lights down low and locking the front door. That way, Reid would have to let her know he was here, plus she didn’t want a person off the street disturbing her private party.

  At five after seven she checked her phone again. Nothing.

  She called. No answer.

  He could’ve been held up in traffic. Maybe his phone died. Reid had never played games with her before, and had always done what he’d said. She knew he hadn’t forgotten.

  Unless...

  She chewed her lip, remembering her early-morning text to him. She’d wished him a “happy birthday” followed by a “can’t wait for tonight!” At the last second, she’d added a heart emoji to her text and sent it.

  Surely that wouldn’t have scared him off?

  “He’s on his way,” she said aloud. She refused to let her confidence do a free fall. Tonight was too important to give into timidity.

  * * *

  At nine o’clock, Drew gave up the hope she’d held so dear. He wasn’t coming.

  She locked the door behind her borrowed staff, Beaux, Dana and Rocko, apologizing again for the hiccup in plans. Fear and worry mingling in a volatile mix, she lifted her cell phone and tried one last time to call Reid. After the fourth ring her heart sank, and this time she left a voice mail.

  “Reid. It’s nine o’clock. I’m at Fig & Truffle. You didn’t call, you didn’t text. You didn’t show up. I don’t know what to think. I’m scared to death you’ve been in an accident. I’m probably overreacting. Things happen. Delays occur. Hell, maybe you had a family emergency. Anyway, happy birthday.”

  She pressed End and stared at the screen of her phone, her stomach churning. She was worried, but she was also pissed. Was this his way of ending things? Was he going to ghost her until she went away? It seemed cruel, especially after how certain she’d been that they were growing to love each other, but...

  Maybe Christina had been right.

  Drew hadn’t come clean about her feelings to Reid, and now he didn’t show up to the evening she’d planned.

  “Or...” she told herself. “He’s reeling because it’s his birthday.”

  Reid had not only shared the truth about his deceased brother, he’d told her plainly that birthdays weren’t celebrated since Wesley’s disappearance and subsequent funeral. Reid had warned her off from planning anything, and she’d told him not to worry, assuming he’d be grateful once he’d arrived. She’d convinced herself that she
was doing this for him, for them, but was she? Or did she become so wrapped up in the planning that she never stopped to think about what he wanted?

  Christina was absolutely right. Drew hadn’t leveled with him about anything.

  Reid must’ve caught wind of her plans, or maybe he’d sensed via her texts and the heart emoji that tonight wasn’t a soft opening after all. If he’d suspected her of luring him here for a birthday celebration—one he hadn’t asked for and didn’t want—there’s no way he’d show up.

  She’d accept her share of the blame, but he should’ve communicated his feelings—no matter what they were. He could’ve at least given her the courtesy of a reply text.

  “Bastard,” she growled under her breath. Anger took the controls from worry as Drew drove to Reid’s apartment. She vowed to keep a cool head and let him say his piece, but if she found out he’d blown her off on purpose, they were going to have a lot to talk about.

  Short of death, there was zero excuse for him not contacting her to tell her he wouldn’t be there tonight.

  She banged on Reid’s door after sweet-talking the front desk—Ralph knew her by now, so it hadn’t been that hard—but there wasn’t an answer. She knocked one last time before trying the knob, and the door opened.

  Inside his apartment she heard the TV around the corner, and took a deep breath of relief when she saw him sitting on the couch. Now that she knew he was okay, she was going to kill him.

  “It’s Drew,” she announced. The back of Reid’s head was visible over the sofa and a war movie was on the screen—her least favorite.

  “Reid?”

  She rounded the couch to find him slumped, eyes closed, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand. She reached for the bottle before he spilled liquor on the couch, and he jerked awake.

  “What the hell!” he barked. His eyes were dark with fury, his mouth a hateful tilt.

  “Are you... What happened to you tonight?”

  He avoided looking her in the eye. “You’re in my way,” he growled. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  Okay, she had no idea what was with his Jekyll/Hyde behavior, but she wasn’t going to stand here and take it. He’d never talked to her this way. She snatched away the remote and flicked off the TV.

  “Hand it over!” He tried to stand but he stumbled, crashing onto the couch in an inelegant heap.

  “Give me the bottle and I’ll give you the remote.”

  “No deal.” He took another swig, spilling whiskey over his chin before setting aside the bottle.

  “I waited for you for over two hours,” she told him. “And you were here the whole time...getting drunk?”

  “It’s my birthday.”

  “I thought you wanted to spend it with—” someone you love “—me.”

  A flash of guilt lit his expression and vanished just as fast. “Yeah, well.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? Or answer my text?” Things couldn’t end this way. She wouldn’t let them end this way. “At the very least, I’m owed the respect of a reply.”

  “With a heart emoji,” he slurred, glowering up at her.

  There it was. Her fear confirmed. She’d convinced herself on the way over here that she’d been overreacting. He had held that stupid red heart emoji against her.

  “I—”

  “Get out, Drew.” Those words were spoken plainly, not an iota of a slur or hesitation, which made them all the harder to hear. He pointed to the door. “Before I call security.”

  “I am not going to let you kick me out of here without an explanation.”

  “Yes, you are.” This time he did stand, bearing down on her with nostrils flared. “You’ll do it because I asked. And because you deserve better than someone who can’t be who you need. You deserve someone who texts hearts back to you... Someone who shows up. Someone without all this baggage.” Pain crept into Reid’s eyes. “You deserve someone—” he touched her cheek gently “—better than me.”

  His eyes fluttered, and he swayed, nearly toppling over. She grabbed his arms and—thank God for the trainers at the gym—was able to reroute him to the couch, where he fell with a whump. He lay on his left shoulder, awkwardly positioned, eyes shut. A soft snore came next.

  There was something else going on with him—something bigger than heart emojis and birthday dinners. Maybe he’d gotten a call from his father that his mother wasn’t okay, or maybe he’d called his mum for support and she hadn’t offered any.

  No matter what had happened, Drew couldn’t leave him here alone. She’d never seen Reid behave this way. She couldn’t be certain that he was in his right mind, or that he wouldn’t attempt to drive somewhere. Someone had to stay with him and make sure he was okay, and that someone couldn’t be her. Reid didn’t want her here. He’d made that clear.

  But she knew who could help. The same person she’d always turned to first whenever she’d been in trouble. After the second ring, her brother answered.

  “Hey, sis.”

  “Gage,” she spoke around a lump in her throat, frightened and worried now that the anger had passed. “I need you to come to Reid’s.”

  Twenty-Three

  Tate had drunk enough wine at his birthday celebration to tranquilize a grizzly bear, but apparently it hadn’t been enough to keep him asleep through the night.

  He bolted upright, his chest heaving. A sheen of cold sweat covered him, and his head throbbed like hell.

  He was momentarily disoriented by the pale blue walls and the pink floral comforter, the whitewashed dresser that glowed in the moonlight streaming in through the window. Then he remembered he was at Claire’s apartment. She’d driven him here after the restaurant where Tate had wine. Like, all the wine.

  His fiancée was fast asleep, her perfect bone structure aglow and her neatly brushed blond hair fanning over the pillow.

  He touched her gently, half expecting her to turn into smoke and vanish altogether. That’s the way he’d felt ever since the phone call with his mother yesterday. As if his entire life had been a mirage. She’d said they needed to talk, and that hadn’t been the half of it...

  “We need to talk.”

  “Then talk.”

  “Not over the phone. Plus, your father will want to be there.”

  “Don’t do this to me, dammit.” He’d never spoken to his mother that way his whole life, but desperate times... “I’m sorry. I can’t... You have to tell me something, Mom. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  She sighed, a ragged sound from the depths. Frankly, he was terrified what she’d say next.

  “Everything your father and I have told you about your past, your parentage and your childhood is true.”

  Tate released the breath he was holding. The back of his head hit the headrest in relief. “Thank God.”

  But before he could completely relax, his mother added, “As far as we know.”

  When she’d started to cry, he’d known something was severely off. She refused to tell him any more over the phone. He’d boarded the ferry and returned to Spright Island. But even his sanctuary within the luxury wellness community he ran and operated wasn’t enough to lift the weight of dread from his shoulders.

  His parents had traveled to his house to talk to him in person this morning, and what they’d told him was at once better and worse than Tate had imagined.

  He ran through the list of what he now knew for sure.

  One, he was adopted at age three.

  He pictured Reid in the café. Our third birthday party was a circus theme...

  Two, he was born to British parents, which was why he used to have an accent.

  You’re Wesley Singleton and you were born in London.

  And finally, the new information that had come to light: his parents had always been suspicious of the agency from where
they’d adopted Tate.

  “We fell in love with you on sight,” his mother had said through heaving sobs as she stood in his living room.

  His father hadn’t been crying, but his throat had been choked with emotion when he admitted that he, too, had been suspicious. “But we never doubted your parents were dead. We knew it was unscrupulous for the agency to ask for an extra fee, but we loved you so very much.”

  They’d paid over $100,000 in “processing fees” to rush the adoption process. The agency had provided the death certificates of Tate’s alleged birth parents, and that had been the end of their communication with the agency.

  “We still love you so much,” his mother had said.

  Tate loved them, too, but hadn’t been able to return the sentiment at that moment. Instead, he’d given them his spare key and invited them to stay at his home on Spright Island for a while.

  He’d returned to Seattle to Claire, arriving about six hours earlier than he’d planned and with a packed bag. Then he’d pasted on a smile as fake as he suspected those death certificates were and told her he missed her.

  They’d been dating a little over a year, and he’d proposed a month ago. They hadn’t decided yet where to live, though it made more sense to him to stay in Spright Island since he owned a home there and Claire rented. They’d tabled the discussion for the time being. To think he’d believed her hesitation was the biggest cause for turmoil in his otherwise worry-free life.

  Worry-free until now.

  He’d spent the day and evening with Claire and two couples who had started out as friends of hers. Tate hadn’t enjoyed the dinner or the company, or even the wine. He’d used the substance to numb himself.

  He’d kept what his parents told him secret and vowed to keep it secret until the day he actually died. No good could come from rocking the boat. None at all.

  Claire made a soft noise and touched his arm.