Page 63 of Rumor Has It

Except, what I confess to Cassidy next swings the pendulum in the opposite direction from our well-crafted perfection.

“Aria isn’t mine.”

Chapter Twenty-four

CASSIDY

Morbid curiosity leads my heart out of bed.

As I sift through my closet for something comfortable to wear, I worry about my appearance. First, what man wants the princess he returns to rescue to resemble the haggard witch? Then, my head spinning at his intrusion, and pounding from a hangover, I stop caring.

This isn’t a bookish moment. I need to get over my starry-eyed ideals. Whatever reasons Isaiah had to leave were more important than his feelings for me.

I’m sure Isaiah’s not the only super hot country singer who’s ever bedded a rando. Made her feel like she was special. Or kept her insides twisted up for days over what happens when it ends. Because, of course, it was ending with my stupid heart getting broken.

I need to stop letting my heart lead me and start using my brain.

Stomping down the stairs, I’m in full-fledged “shit or get off the pot” mode. I’m actually leaning toward making the decision for Isaiah altogether and telling him to get the fuck out. He’s an uppity asshole, reserving the whole inn, and displacing guests who reserved rooms months ago for their getaways.

Take it from me. No one wants their life controlled by another’s whims.

At the foot of the stairs, I’m blocked by a severe woman in a gray suit, who doesn’t belong in my family’s home. She informs me I can’t go into my sister’s office unless I kowtow to her bad behavior. Something I find little humor in. I’m already irate that the man on the opposite side of the door plans to use his celebrity status to insist I accept a phony apology.

Who the hell does this enormous jerkface think he is, upending my life twice in twenty-four hours? I’m Rose Cavanaugh’s granddaughter for Christ’s sake. Gran never gave anyone power over her. So, why should I?

The only thing stopping me from telling Isaiah’s bitch exactly what I think of the people he employs is Monty’s congenial greeting. Isaiah’s bodyguard has been nothing less than a complete gentleman. He’s ditched the suit and tie, looking casual in khakis and a ribbed black shirt. Because of his stature, what he’s wearing still screams don’t mess with me.

What his jovial demeanor doesn’t quite scream is “Team Vespa.”

Isaiah’s assistant doesn’t seem to like me and, now that we’ve met, the feeling is mutual. In the heat of the moment, I call her the c-word.

Hearing Isiah’s voice, I push Vespa out of the way. Seeing him in the flesh, the fight in me crumbles.

He’s got on similar worn jeans to the pair that hug his ass so nicely it makes a girl’s heart go pitter-pat. These are darker. He must have a closet of the same fit and style. A signature soft t-shirt shows off his muscular forearms. It’s bunched, riding up over his hip on one side caught in the waist belt of the baby carrier strapped to him.

Sound asleep in the front pack is a tiny bundle in a white sleeper with a pink daisy print and pink trim.

The baby jumps and I feel awful for raising my voice and startling her. However, my regret over swearing hardly registers. Crazy, since I watch my language in front of my niece and nephew.

Isaiah and Vespa bicker. He tells her to get out. By the time someone’s closed the door, I’ve figured out what the fuss is about. My family has done nothing wrong.I’ve done nothing wrong. But Isaiah’s closest confidants don’t want anyone finding out this child exists. The fight Vespa’s having with me is for him.

Deep worry lines etch Isaiah’s face. The need to understand his motives overwhelms my anger and sadness. I scribble my name on the stupid paper. Although my heart seizes when Isaiah confirms Aria is Kylie’s daughter. For a fraction of a second, I considered I could be wrong.

He has a child.

I offer him a seat and watch Isaiah arrange himself on the couch with the cumbersome carrier dangling between his legs. The entire situation is awkward. Yet, he’s seemed embarrassed since he said he didn’t know anything about Aria.

“Hi, pretty girl,” I channel every ounce of my aunt’s grace, talking to Aria the way I did the first time I held Emeran after she was born.

She reaches out, wrapping her slimy, tiny fingers around mine.

None of what’s happening is Aria’s fault and I’m agreeing to listen to assuage my guilt. If I’d known about her, I wouldn’t have kept Isaiah away.

He says he trusts me. That I’m important to him. So why did he keep this from me? My eyes fill with tears and the intricate pattern of the Oriental carpet becomes terribly interesting while Isaiah explains how painful this past year has been for him.

Even so, I can’t look at him. The man I grew close with was open and expressive. I was more concerned I was reading into Isaiah’s intentions than I was that he was hiding how he felt about me. I think I understand his grief now. The exhaustion, and depression he felt. Except, I still don’t understand how his pain allowed him to abandon this adorable little girl until Isaiah takes my hand and says those three words.

She isn’t mine.

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