Page 49 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

Duncan’s arms went ramrod straight against his sides. “Hello, Mother.”

“You made it,” Mrs. Hawthorne said, feigning a smile.

I waited for her to pull her son into her arms, to ask how his travels were, or even to say how glad she was to have him home again.

She said exactly none of these. Instead, she stepped back and gestured for the two of us to come inside.

So we did.

Feeling more like an imposter than ever, I followed Duncan’s example and removed my shoes, leaving them on the marble entryway. To the left, the entrance lowered a single step into the living room.

The carpets were greener than envy but clearly well cared for, shimmery in that just-shampooed kind of way. Floral curtains contrasted the carpet. A tiny clock on the mantel above the fireplace gave off little pinging noises every time the second hand moved.

Mrs. Hawthorne strode with grace and settled herself on the left side of a floral love seat at the room’s far end. A man occupied a high-backed velvet chair in the opposite corner. He kept his attention plastered to his phone.

I waited with my heart in my mouth. Duncan stood near the baby grand piano in the room’s left-hand corner. Tension didn’t ripple so much as seethe as the man lowered his phone and looked up, as Mrs. Hawthorne rested her eyes on her son.

His fists remained at his sides. What was the deal—was this a military family or something? Had his dad kept a tight regime, giving him rigid schedules and demands for upright posture at every turn?

The clock on the mantel ticked, letting off tiny pings. My fingers tapped my legs. I was tempted to pull out my phone just so I had somewhere else to look than this awkwardly uncomfortable scene.

Why didn’t Duncan say anything? Weren’t these his parents?

Why didn’ttheysay anything?

This was completely different from the atmosphere we’d had at the lake house around his staff. Nicole and Pat had welcomed him, gushing over our trip, over how pretty I was, over which rooms we’d wanted to stay in.

Instead, this was like an awkward blunder during a public speech, where the speaker said something out of turn and didn’t know how to continue, and the audience was too baffled to do anything about it, either.

Were they always like this? Why was his family so cold?

I couldn’t fathom being treated this way by my family. No greeting. No pleasure in each other’s company. No warmth.

My gaze shifted to Duncan, who still stood as stalwartly rigid as a soldier. My heart softened with pity for him once more. Earlier, I’d suspected he was the way he was because of his family.

I couldn’t remember a time where I wished I was more wrong.

Was this the family dynamic Duncan had grown up with? Was this normal to him?

Memories of my own mother swelled so painfully, it hurt. Mom’s gentle, kind countenance, her sweet smile, the way she pulled me into a hug every time I came home from school.

These people hadn’t seen their son in years, yet they were treating him like a salesman. What happened between them?

I tried to think of something to say, but it wasn’t my place to break this ice.

Any minute now, his mom’s stony expression would crack. She’d call him out for believing the joke, cross the room, and wrap him in her arms.

Duncan chiseled into the silence, letting the pieces tinkle where they may.

“Mother. Dad. How are you?”

Mr. Hawthorne lowered his phone once more as if barely noticing there were two extra people in the room. His expression lifted, and he smiled and rose from his chair. At least someone in this family had some decency.

“Duncan.” He offered Duncan a hand and then pulled him to his chest, clapping him on the back. “How was the trip?”

“Just fine, thanks.” Relief seeped onto his face. “Dad, Mother, I’d like you both to meet?—”

Before they could say anything more, a doorway down the hall across from the living room opened, and soft, feminine voices began trickling in our direction.

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