Trust in Me(123)

            And what I did know, I didn’t like.

            At the fifteen-minute mark, I couldn’t sit any longer. I climbed out of the car and stepped into the sweltering heat. Sliding my cap around, I pulled the brim down to shield the sun.

            I walked around the rented sedan, eyeing the entrance to the house. The marble columns were a nice touch. As I turned, gazing out over the manicured landscape that went as far as I could see, there wasn’t a single person moving about.

            The place was empty, and in spite of the body-breaking temps, it was cold. I couldn’t picture Shortcake growing up in this kind of atmosphere or figure out how she’d come out as warm and loving as she was.

            My shirt was already beginning to stick to my shoulders as I returned to the fountain. Closing my eyes, I willed my legs not to turn around and bust up into that house. I knew Shortcake needed to do this on her own, but I hated that she was facing them without me by her side.

            I stuck out my hand, letting the warm water trickle across my open palm. What would her parents think if I took a dip? I was half tempted. I was also five seconds away from barging into the house when I heard a door shut behind me. Turning, I saw Avery heading down the wide stone stairs.

            She was smiling broadly.

            I hadn’t been expecting that.

            Tension seeped out of my shoulders as I jogged around the car, catching her in the middle of the circular driveway. “How’d it go?”

            “Ah . . .” She rose onto the tips of her sandaled feet, slanted her head and kissed me. “It went as expected.”

            I held on to her hips, my fingers tightening as a surge of lust and love and a thousand other complicated emotions roared through me. “Want to tell me about it?”

            “Over dinner?” She started to move away, but I captured her hand, holding her in place. “I’m going to take you to Chuy’s—”

            “Avery?”

            Steel poured down my spine at the sound of her name and I tightened my hold on her hand. She turned as my gaze narrowed on the tall man walking down the front stairs.

            This was her father.

            I knew it immediately.

            His dark brown hair was gray at the temples and he didn’t look a day over fifty. He was dressed as if he were heading out to the golf club, pants pressed and polo shirt tucked in.

            “If he says something ignorant, I cannot promise I will not lay him out right here, right now,” I warned her.

            She squeezed my hand. “Hopefully that won’t become an issue.”

            “Just saying.”

            Her father stopped in front of us, his eyes—identical to Shortcake’s—looked from his daughter to where our hands were joined together. I dared him to say one thing.

            “This is Cameron Hamilton,” she said, clearing her throat. “Cam, this is my father.”

            Since it would be rude to give him the middle finger or punch him in the face, I extended my free hand. “Hi.”

            He shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

            “What’s up, Dad?” she asked when I didn’t return the polite greeting.

            Mr. Morgansten dragged his eyes from me, and his gaze landed on his daughter for maybe a fraction of a second before flicking away. I could see the age on him now, settling in the creases around his eyes and mouth.

            His chest rose with a deep breath and then said, “You know what I’ve missed most of all? I miss watching you dance.”