Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

‘And you knew him?’

‘Yes.’

I shake my head, hating everything about this. I feel vulnerable and uncertain—two emotions I have fought all my adult life to avoid like the plague.

‘Did he know about me?’

A muscle jerks in Barrett’s jaw. My fingers itch to reach out and touch it. ‘I don’t know.’

I nod, closing my eyes.

‘Come on.’ His voice is deep, flooded with emotion, and a moment later he’s out of the car, coming to my door and opening it.

I have been alone a very long time and if I don’t exactly like it that way, I like the predictability of it. On my own, I know what to expect. But that’s not to say I’m not irritatingly comforted by Barrett’s presence as we move towards the hotel. Sliding glass doors and two suited bellhops greet us.

‘Sir,’ one of them says with a polite nod.

Barrett barely acknowledges him, but not out of rudeness so much as concern for me. I can see it all over his face. Well, what the hell did he expect? My legs feel unsteady, my palms are sticky with sweat and when the elevator whooshes us up into the hotel my tummy lurches but it doesn’t stop, even when the doors ping open into a carpeted corridor. A large window at one end frames a view of the Bay, glistening in the evening light as the sun dips down. Barrett swipes a key card on a panel near the end of the corridor and a door springs open to reveal a large, beautifully decorated suite. High ceilings, plush carpet, shining timber furniture with a decidedly retro feel, sumptuous curtains and a modern kitchen.

‘Have a seat.’ He guides me towards a sofa and settles me into the cushions. I have been alone a very long time and yet I don’t fight this—being cossetted and cared for—even though I know I will, soon. When I can. For the moment I feel so completely shell-shocked it’s easier to surrender to this warmth than it is to fight it.

I hear the clinking of glasses, the pouring of liquid, and a moment later Barrett is by my side with a glass of Scotch. He hands it to me and takes the seat opposite, our knees brushing.

‘It’s good for shock,’ he explains.

‘Is that what I am? Shocked?’ I lift my eyes to his and jerk my gaze away again almost immediately because of the worry there. I’m not used to that; I don’t know what to do with it.

His jaw shifts, like he’s grinding his teeth. ‘You clearly didn’t know?’

I shake my head. ‘I had no idea who my father is. Was.’

He cradles his own Scotch without lifting it to his lips. ‘Your mother didn’t speak about him?’

‘Not really.’ I close my eyes and an enormous wave of sadness washes over me, thinking of my mother. ‘I know he was married—or guessed as much. And I know he hurt her. A whole heap.’

‘Ryan’s gift,’ Barrett offers with a terse shift of his head.

‘Oh?’

‘He was reasonably challenged when it came to personal relationships.’ Another grimace. ‘And that’s putting it mildly. The man was...a disaster.’

I nod, his words a jumble in my mind. ‘I just can’t believe this.’

‘That you’re a Hart?’

I jerk my eyes to his. ‘I’m not a Hart.’ I take a huge gulp of Scotch, relishing the burning sensation as it assaults my oesophagus. ‘But yeah, that he’s my father.’ I bite down on my lower lip, trying to make sense of this. ‘I always wondered, when I was a kid. Most kids I knew had moms and dads. Grandparents.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘It was just Mom and me.’ I swallow, my throat thick. ‘I grew up in one of the poorest streets in San Fran. Life was tough. We were so broke, so hungry; Mom was always stressed. It was hard. And it was lonely. Mom worked three jobs when I was small. I was so different to everyone else. When the kids in my school were getting taken to Disneyland for summer holidays, I was home alone for days on end while Mom worked—we barely had enough money for food, rent; she was exhausted and stressed. And at night there were these drunks next door and they’d fight and shout.’ I shake my head, the memories a huge part of the woman I’ve become, yet I don’t like to dwell on them. That terror I had to grapple with on a nightly basis—that someone would burst through the flimsy door of our tiny flat at any point—is still so real, so easy to experience anew.

I push the memories aside, drink some more Scotch, my mind becoming increasingly numb as the alcohol I’ve consumed finally takes effect. ‘I used to wonder about my dad and why he wasn’t there. I used to hope that maybe he was powerful and rich, that he’d sweep in and rescue us, take us away from that awful place, take me to freaking Disneyland,’ I say on a hollow laugh. ‘Like Disneyland could fix everything. I used to dream of happy endings and all that bullshit. But he never came. We lived in that place until my mom died, and life never got easier, it never got better, and she never got over him.’ Anger makes my words shake. ‘I’m not a Hart.’

He puts a hand on my knee and I stare down at it, in the back of my mind wondering why I don’t shove it—him—aside. This is something I need to process alone.

‘You have three brothers,’ he murmurs, his fingers moving over me gently, reassuringly. ‘And they’re great guys.’

I compress my lips. ‘Well, yeah, sure. I mean, they grew up rich and without a care in the world. Why wouldn’t they be great guys?’ The strength of my bitterness surprises even me.