“Maybe...” I hate how good she is at luring me in.
“It’s Saturday! And it’s not like we have anything else to do besides enjoy the weather,” Eliza says.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I say.
It’s a quick ride to the park.
I’ve been to the edge of this place a few times before, this open green field with a wooded area at the back. At least what counts for wooded with a few lingering copses of trees in the city.
Once you get past the entrance and a little playing field, the open area is covered in row after row of tents, where the homeless camp out.
We stop and I scan our surroundings. None of the people on the benches or milling around the edge of the park fit Lucifer’s description.
“No sign of him yet. Let’s hide the bikes and stay close to the wooded area.” I hop off my bike.
Eliza scans the encampment. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
She has a point. The bikes could be jacked and sold to buy food or supplies by any bad actors in the camp. “We’ll stay close enough to see them.”
She nods and we move behind the trees, hiding our bikes in some brush.
“This isn’t the kind of park I’d expect a dude with a fashion empire to frequent,” I say, my brows knitting together.
“What? You mean you’re surprised your billionaire boss hangs out in a tent city? I mean, Seattle’s no stranger to places like this—it sucks and I feel for the people who live here—but yeah, it’s pretty weird for Mr. Moneybags to come strolling through here. I wonder why?”
Your guess is as good as mine.
We trudge on for a few more minutes before Eliza stops, grabbing my arm.
“Hey, wait, I think I see him!” She extends her arm, pointing in front of us and to the left.
“How do you know? You’ve never seen him.” I follow her finger with my eyes and I don’t spot him at first.
“I’m guessing he’s the only person here who looks like an Instagram thirst trap? That guy fits the description—holy mchottie.”
Sure enough.
Lincoln stands in all his sculpted glory, dressed in dark-blue jeans that accent his powerful hips and a button-down shirt with military shoulder traps. There’s a Sweeter Grind cup pressed to his mouth.
A few seconds later, he sits on a box next to a man with an overgrown beard and a face smudged with dirt.
Lincoln pulls a cinnamon roll out of the bag and then hands the rest to the bearded guy. They both have coffees from Sweeter Grind.
The entire scene does not compute.
I think my brain crashes and reboots several times before I realize my heart stopped beating seconds ago.
I might be watching the sweetest, most unexpected thing ever.
He’s feeding the homeless.
Guilt crashes over me in a tidal wave. Was he planning to feed a homeless guy this entire time with that roll I wouldn’t sell him?
“Dakota, is it him?”
“Yep. Good eye,” I say, blinking. “You’re looking at the dude who throws fits over Regis rolls. I guess he has coffee and pastries with homeless people. I’ll never figure him out.”
“Maybe he isn’t as big of a jerkwad as you thought?”
Hmm.
Is it possible?
He did call me up yesterday to apologize. But then again, if he hadn’t been such a nosy prick in the first place, he wouldn’t have needed any sorries.
“...I don’t know,” I say, realizing I don’t really know anything about him.
“They’re talking about a kid,” Eliza says.
“You hear them from here?” I look at her.
“My grandma was deaf my whole life. I used to stay with her while my mom was at work. She taught me to read lips. The crazy beard beside him says he’d give up his other leg and both arms to see his son again.”
“Other leg? Does that mean he gave up one leg already?”
“I don’t know. Can’t tell from here, but the best I can follow, it seems like maybe he did,” she says.
I don’t need her lip reading to process what happens next.
Lincoln drops a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. He says something with a gentle, heartfelt expression. His head is tilted down, and Eliza can’t read his lips.
But the other guy smiles for the first time since we’ve been here, and Lincoln doesn’t immediately move his hand. The billionaire jackass certainly doesn’t treat the homeless guy like an untouchable.
I’m stunned.
Also, a little humbled.
...hadn’t I called him entitled? Repeatedly?
But catching Lincoln Burns in this parallel reality makes it harder to hate him for his rotten behavior.
That’s not a good thing.
It’s like I can feel a big, jagged piece of my defenses falling down and crashing to bits.
They’re talking again. I paw at Eliza’s arm like a hungry puppy.
“What’s he saying now?” I whisper.
“Bossholio’s asking—no, more like begging—the homeless guy to...come home with him? What the hell?”