Never Say Forever

“My congratulations, Melly.” My hand slips from Carson’s as, ever the gentleman, he reaches out to take her hand. Simon steps forward and I find my trembling hand in his.

“Simon,” he murmurs smoothly, blue gaze intent on mine. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” It’s a barb veiled in satin. A warning as he brings his other hand over our joined hands, increasing the pressure in his hold.

“It’s so lovely to meet you.” Melly steps forward almost impulsively, exchanging her slim hand for his masculine one.

“I’m Fee, Carson’s . . .” I’m not his girlfriend or his date; those descriptions are too asinine to describe what we have. I’m not his boo, babe, or his partner. “I’m—”

“She’s mine.”

In any other situation I might’ve laughed, albeit delightedly, even if Cason’s tone does lack any sort of inflection. I’m just grateful he’s still standing beside me. That my hand is in his again.

I couldn’t have known they were brothers. They’re both tall, dark, and handsome, but maybe that’s just my type. Isn’t that almost every woman’s type? But I hadn’t been one hundred percent truthful to Carson. About him. About Lulu’s father. Carson’s brother, as it turns out.

“Well, how lovely. Isn’t that lovely, Simon?” Melly practically glues herself to his side, her gaze ducking to Lulu standing silently between us, her arm wrapped around Carson’s leg, quietly trying to make sense of the strange atmosphere, if I know my child. “Oh, the car is here.” Her attention slides to the Maybach idling at the curb, its driver already at the rear passenger door. “I don’t want to leave, not when we’ve just met. Maybe you’d like to come to church with us this morning?”

“That’s very kind of you Melly but we’re meeting friends for breakfast,” Carson answers, his tone smooth and unaffected. I really don’t know how he’s managing it, because this has got to be some kind of mind fuck for him, too. My insides feel like a bag of nerves on a spin cycle wash.

“Don’t say you’ll disappear before we get back,” she almost pouts.

“I’m sure Simon knows exactly where to find me.”

Melly’s eyes widen a touch at the French pronunciation of her fiancé’s name. Cee-mon.

“It’s how our mother said it,” the shit explains with a small grin.

“I like it.” She all but flutters her lashes, pressing her hand to his cheek.

Brett. Simon. No wonder I couldn’t find him.

This is such a mess.

“Darling,” he begins to gently peel her fingers from the crook of his arm. “Why don’t you go and get into the car. I have something I’d like to speak to Carson about.”

“Is it about the wedding?” she asks, her eyes suddenly bright. She looks like the kind of woman who delights in surprises. She’s probably on the receiving end of them often. Flowers and diamonds. Being whisked away for romantic weekends at a moment’s notice.

My eyes slide to my daughter. I wonder how she’d feel about this kind of surprise.

“If I tell you, it’ll spoil the surprise.”

I come back to the moment at the smooth sound of Simon’s voice, my heart aching just a little to watch them. She’s so smitten and he seems so . . . Brett. The man I thought I knew. At least, until that last night we met. The night he’d accused me of being a cock tease and suggested if I knew what was good for me, I’d get on my back and let him fuck me. The years have probably made it worse than it really was. It’s not like he forced me or anything.

There follows a flurry of goodbyes and whispered purrs of “don’t be long”. The glass doors barely have time to swish closed before Simon crouches down in front of Lulu.

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

Lulu presses her cheek to Carson’s thigh as though seeking his reassurance of his solidness, much as I’ve done.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Evidently not, as she sticks it out. He chuckles and she scowls, probably unhappy he’d confused the point of her protruding tongue. If I know my daughter, it wasn’t proof that she possesses a tongue. She was making a point, perhaps an impolite point, but a valid one.

“Do you not know how old you are?”

Lulu narrows her gaze as she pushes Norman under her arm. Without loosening her grip on the bunny or Carson, she holds out four fingers.

“How many is that?” He must not know many children or else he wouldn’t seek to patronise.

“Did you get the dumb?” her little voice says. “I showed you four.”

“That many, huh?”

“Do you know my mommy?”

“Add another nine months to that, and this all makes sense,” the asshole says happily as he stands. “Sweetheart, your mommy and I know each other in a biblical sense.”

Carson

This is my brother. Hateful. Envious. A waste of fucking skin and hair. The kind of man my grandfather would’ve been proud of, if only he’d been able to see past me; the grandson who had his name. The Hayes business interests and fortune may be largely mine, but in some ways, Simon is carrying on the family name. Not that he has the same sick interests as our grandfather, but he has the same capacity for hate. Spite. Revenge.