His Son, Her Secret. Sarah M. Anderson

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СКАЧАТЬ grasp on Byron’s reaction to the idea of having a five-month-old son. Not until she knew if he would decree that the boy would be better off a Beaumont instead of a Harper.

      Byron had to know about his child eventually, but she could not lose her son.

      “All right,” she finally said. “Dinner tomorrow night at six. I’ll draft a few ideas and you can provide feedback.” Her phone chimed—it was a text from May, reminding Leona about her class tonight. “Anything else?”

      The question hung in the air like the cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Byron looked at her with such longing that she almost weakened.

      Then the look shifted and anything warm or welcoming was gone and all that was left was an iciness she hadn’t seen before. It chilled her to the bone.

      “No,” he said, his voice freezing. “There’s nothing else I need from you.”

      That was an answer, all right.

      But not the one she wanted to hear.

Three

      “Your sauce is going to burn.”

      This simple observation from George made Byron jump. “Damn.” He hurried over to reduce the heat under the saucepan, mentally kicking himself for making a rookie mistake.

      George Jackson chuckled from his perch on a stool—the same place he’d been sitting for the past thirty-five years. Mothers and stepmothers came and went, more children showed up—being a Beaumont meant living in a constant state of uncertainty. Except for the kitchen. Except for George. Sure, his brown skin was more wrinkled and, yes, more of his hair was white than not. But otherwise, he was the same man—one of the very few, black or white, who didn’t take crap from any Beaumont. Not even Hardwick. Maybe that’s why Hardwick had kept George around and why Chadwick had kept him on after Hardwick’s death. George was constant and honest.

      Like right now. “Boy, you’re a wreck.”

      “I’m fine,” Byron lied. Which was pointless because George knew him far too well to buy that line.

      George shook his head. “Why are you trying so hard to impress this girl? I thought she was the whole reason you left town.”

      “I’m not,” Byron said, stirring the scalded sauce. “We’re working together. She’s designing the restaurant. I’m preparing food that might be on the menu in said restaurant. That’s not trying to impress her.”

      George chuckled again. “Yeah, sure it’s not. You Beaumont men are all alike,” he added under his breath.

      “I am absolutely not like my father and you know it,” Byron shot off, checking the roast in the oven. “I’ve never married anyone, much less a string of people, and I certainly don’t have any kids running around.”

      George snorted at this. “Be that as it may, you’re exactly like your old man. Even like Chadwick, sitting up there with his second wife. None of you all could be honest with yourselves when it came to women.” He seemed to reconsider this statement. “Well, maybe not Chadwick this time. Miss Serena is different. Hope your brother doesn’t screw it up. But my point is, you all are fools.”

      “Thanks, George,” Byron replied sarcastically. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

      From a long way away, the doorbell rang. “Watch the sauce,” Byron said as he hurried out of the kitchen.

      The Beaumont Mansion was a huge building that had been built by his grandfather, John Beaumont, after prohibition and after World War II, when beer had been legal and soldiers had come home to drink it. The Beaumont Brewery had barely managed to stay afloat for twenty years, and then suddenly John had been making money faster than he could count it. He’d built several new buildings on the brewery campus as well as the mansion, a 15,000 square-foot pile of brick designed to show up the older mansions of the silver barons. The mansion had turrets and stained glass and gargoyles, for God’s sake. Nothing was ever over-the-top to a Beaumont, apparently.

      Byron had always hated this house, the way it made people act. The house was toxic with the ghosts of John and Hardwick. This was not a house that had known happiness. He couldn’t understand why Chadwick insisted on raising his family here.

      Byron hadn’t even bothered to unpack the rest of his stuff because he wasn’t going to be here long enough to settle in. He’d get a nice apartment with a good kitchen close to the Percheron Drafts brewery and that’d be fine. In the meantime, he’d spend as much time in the one room that had always been free from drama and grief—the kitchen.

      He almost ran into Chadwick, who was coming downstairs to answer the door. “I’ve got it,” Byron said, sidestepping his oldest brother.

      Chadwick made no move to go back upstairs. “Expecting company?”

      “It’s the interior designer,” Byron replied, happy to have that truth to hide behind. “I’ve prepared a sampling of dishes for her so we can build the theme of the restaurant around them.”

      “Ah, good.” Chadwick looked at him, that stern look that always made Byron feel as though he wasn’t measuring up. “Anything else I should know?”

      Byron froze and the doorbell rang again. “George is making apple cobbler for dessert tonight,” he said.

      Then—weirdly—Chadwick smiled. It wasn’t something Byron remembered happening when they were growing up. Back then, Chadwick had been imposing and their father’s clear favorite, and Byron had been the irritating little brother who liked to play in the kitchen.

      “If you need another opinion, let me know,” Chadwick said, turning to head back upstairs. But that was all. No judgments, no cutting words—not even a dismissive glance.

      “Yeah, will do,” Byron said, waiting until Chadwick had disappeared before he opened the door.

      There stood Leona. Something in his chest eased. It wasn’t as if she was dressed to kill—in fact, she looked quite businesslike with a coordinating skirt and jacket. For the first time, he realized how much she’d changed in the past year—something that went much deeper than just her hair. Maybe, an insidious voice in his head whispered, she’s moved on and you haven’t.

      Perhaps that was true. But there was no missing the fact that he was glad to see her. He should hate her and all the Harpers. Not a one of them were to be trusted.

      He needed to remember that. “Hi. Come in.”

      She paused. Despite their year-long relationship, he’d never once brought her back to the mansion nor had she ever asked to visit. That had been part of what had attracted him to her—she had no interest in the trappings of Beaumont wealth and fame.

      He hadn’t realized her disinterest was because she had her own money. Maybe George had been right. Byron was a fool.

      “Thank you.” She stepped into the house and he closed the door behind her. “Oh,” she said, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. “This is lovely.”

      “Not my style,” he admitted. “This way.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ