Page 87 of Daddies' Little Troublemaker

* * *

Caleb

After staying in a shitty motel in Hillside, Lincoln and I return to Mark’s the next morning.

“I’m going to fucking make him see sense,” Link says.

“You can try,” I say. “He was pretty upset.”

“He has every right to be. But I also have the right to explain just how fucking much we care about Evie.”

How fucking much we care. But we didn’t say we love her. We should have. If not for Mark’s benefit, then for Evelyn’s.

Lincoln knocks and knocks at the front door, but there’s no answer. After waiting ten minutes and knocking again, Lincoln finally uses his key.

We go inside and check every room. No one is home.

Evelyn’s bed is neatly made up, but her closet door is open, and there are no clothes. I check the dresser, and it’s also empty.

They left.

* * *

Evelyn

Nothing like being in Paris, the city of light and love, the capital of romance and sensuality…with your dad.

We’ve barely talked about Lincoln and Caleb. He obviously doesn’t want to know anything about it. He’s watching me, though, as if worried I’ll crack.

And yeah, I’ve cried a lot, so maybe he’s right to be concerned. But he’s treating me as if I’m going to weigh myself down with stale baguettes and throw myself into the Seine.

The only thing he’s said about Lincoln and Caleb is, “I don’t blame you, Pumpkin. None of this was your fault.”

He does realize I’m twenty-six, doesn’t he? It’s not like I was groomed into fucking around with them. I went into it knowing that one, it probably wouldn’t last, and two…it probably wouldn’t last.

“Doing okay?” Dad asks as we leave the Louvre and start walking. We’ve been doing touristy things for the past week, his attempt to distract me. It’s unsuccessful. All I can think about is Lincoln and Caleb. Was it all wrong? Do they really not care about me like I care about them?

They didn’t fight for me, they didn’t even say anything. Lincoln could have told my dad that it was more, that it was meaningful…and he didn’t.

The texts they’ve sent since, asking to talk—I haven’t been able to respond. I’m too cowardly to hear them say how much fun they had, but that it’s over.

And if they don’t want to end things? That’s just as scary. It would mean being honest with my dad and probably losing him, and I can’t do that.

“Evelyn?” Dad prompts, bringing me back to the gray stone sidewalk, the ornate lamp posts, and a street seeped in so much history and culture it weighs on me, heavy.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say.

He gives me a long glance, but I don’t meet his eyes.

When my phone buzzes with a text, we both jolt. I hold it up like I need to reassure him. “It’s just another text from Mom about the wedding.”

He visibly relaxes. “Is she still mad?”

“A bit. But she’s getting over it.” She’d been furious when I called to tell her I was in France. The wedding date got moved up with no explanation. It’ll be small and quiet, not the grand affair she wanted, although it’ll still be held at the rose garden like she wanted. When I promised to return for the wedding to fulfill my maid of honor duties, she relaxed, but she’s still not thrilled.

“Do you mind stopping in at this little café up here?” Dad asks. “I want a crème de menthe.”

“Sure,” I say.

---