Facing West (Forever Wilde 1)

“He was also Adriana’s friend,” Mr. Baptiste said quietly before the man himself stepped close enough to be introduced.

Weston Wilde. But not exactly the same West I’d had a secret crush on as a young teen.

This West was tall, at least five inches taller than I was, and tight with muscle that didn’t quite fit the clean-cut suit he wore. His thick blond hair curled deliciously with waves that begged for fingers in them. Light green eyes bore into me, and I felt my balls tighten inappropriately. I studied the man for another split second before looking up at the deep blue sky and mentally shooting God the bird.

Really, motherfucker? You’re really going to dangle a guy like that in front of me in the middle of all this bullshit? Couldn’t he have lost his hair by now or some shit?

What a fucking joke.

He was, of course, perfect—he’d aged beautifully with laugh lines next to his eyes that took the tiniest edge off his otherwise aggressively masculine face. He was a fashion magazine’s take on a cowboy.

The man’s face was etched out of goddamned man stone. Like Charlton Heston and Robert Redford got together to chisel a man’s man out of desert man granite and came up with this manly version of—

“Like hell,” I heard him snap. I blinked and tried desperately to replay what could have happened while I was busy fantasizing about man stuff.

Before I could figure out what the hell was going on, he’d loaded up an arm full of pink blankets and sped off.

“Um,” I began.

“Oh heavens,” the older lady muttered.

“Dammit.” The attorney sighed.

“He’ll be at—” the woman began.

“Yep,” Mr. Baptiste said gently. “Hop in, Goldie. Nico, why don’t you follow me in your car?”

After only a short drive through the little town, I saw the attorney’s vehicle pull into a long, familiar driveway surrounded by tall fir trees. My foot slammed on the brakes before I had a chance to make the turn in after him.

My mother’s place.

The shit shack I’d grown up in until I left home at age fifteen. I took a deep breath and resigned myself to the memories that were sure to flood me when I came around the corner to see the ramshackle trailer.

As I inched down the driveway, I realized how much more wooded the lot had become in my absence. Trees grew together across the narrow drive to form a shaded canopy, and I took a moment to brace myself for the sight of the shabby, brown box I’d spent my childhood in.

Only, when I came around the final curve, what I saw wasn’t what I remembered. Instead of the shit shack, I saw a tidy, light pink cottage with a wide front porch complete with a couple of rocking chairs and hanging ferns. The ferns were like a punch to the gut because I knew Adriana had to have bought them herself before she died.

The house looked nothing like I would have pictured my sister living in. At least the Adriana I remembered from years before. That woman had been hard, dark, and brooding. It didn’t make any sense.

I parked my car in the wide gravel parking area to the side of the house and took a moment to look around and orient myself. The small cottage took up much more room than the trailer that had been there before, but in the distance I could still see glimpses of the shining blue water of Lake Hobie through the trees.

Sure enough, the dark pickup truck we’d been hoping to spot was parked closest to the house, and Mr. Baptiste and Mrs. Banks were stepping out of the attorney’s vehicle. I joined them as they approached the front door and rang the bell.

“He’s probably out back on the swing,” the older woman said softly.

The swing. They couldn’t mean the tire swing that had been there when I was a child. That thing had been on its last legs years ago. I hopped back off the porch and made my way around back, seeing immediately the swing she’d referred to. It hung from the same enormous oak branch the old tire swing had been attached to, but now it was made of a smooth, wide board hanging from strong, thick ropes.

Just as the woman had suspected, West sat on the swing with the baby in his arms. At some point, he’d lost the suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt and was leaning over, whispering and pressing kisses to the baby’s head. Despite the fact he’d basically stolen my niece from right under my nose, something about the scene made my heart hurt. Clearly he loved the little girl. Was it possible he was the baby’s father? If so, why hadn’t he taken custody of her?