Page 37 of The Sweetest Chirp

Tears gather in her eyes and she tries to blink them away, but one escapes. I let go of her wrist, brushing it away and relishing her intake of breath. Our eyes stay locked as she whispers, “I’m sorry I hid her from you.”

My chest burns as I draw in a deep breath. I feel like I’m underwater and she’s the oxygen I need. Unable to resist her, I wrap my hand around her neck and jerk her to me. As much as I want to crush my lips to hers—and by the look in her eyes, I think she thinks I might—I surprise us both by pressing my lips to her cheek. She trembles beneath my lips, and my eyes fall shut as my heart thumps hard against the walls of my chest. “I understand why, and I forgive you.”

She takes in a trembling breath before I pull away to meet her wary gaze.

I squeeze her neck reassuringly, knowing there is nothing else to say.

My eyes are saying it all.

I love you. So fucking much, Audrina.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Well…I thought breathing wasn’t optional when Thatcher’s lips were so close to mine, but then he turned into our families’ estates, and yeah, I can’t draw in a full breath to save my ass. The long winding road up to the two ginormous houses has me clutching my thigh. Iremember when I was younger and compound houses became a big thing all over social media. Everyone was oohing and aahing over them. Wanting to have their loved ones on the same property as them. Meanwhile, my parents owned one. For the same reason as everyone else, to have easy access to the people they wanted around. With our moms being best friends, it only made sense. They wanted Thatcher and me to live here with them, but a two-hour round-trip commute to the IceCats compound was too much for our early-twenties brains. We wanted to party, we wanted to live, so we got a little apartment by the IceCats compound for the two of us.

Our parents, though, bought a fuck-ton of land and built matchingGone with the Wind-style homes. When I reminded my Russian mother and her best friend that we weren’t in Georgia but South Carolina, they shushed me and told me to mind my own business.

Yes, in a very terrible Southern accent.

A little smile pulls at my lips. I’ve missed their crazy antics.

But as soon as we make our way down the road that leads to the homes of our parents, I gaze up at the buildings in awe, and my smile falls away. We’re here. They are massive, spectacular three-story homes that have been featured on Pinterest and many Instagrams.

Both houses are white, with terraces on the top two stories of each that you get to from the bedrooms. Black shutters adorn all the windows, of which there are an overabundance all over the houses. The bottom floors are for entertaining, the middles for the children, and the tops are for the queen and king.

Since I never moved in, the second floor of my parents’ home holds a library and an office for my dad. Ingrid does live on her floor, and his parents have a room for Thatcher whenever he’s home for the holidays or when he wants to stay. The roofs are burnt orange, with huge chimneys sprouting out of the front andback. One for the kitchen stove and one for the fireplace in the main suite. Huge circular driveways with massive fountains are at the front. Each house has ten bathrooms, eight bedrooms, and a movie theater. It’s so over the top it’s bananas, but it makes our parents happy.

As we come to the fork in the road, my eyes drift to where the driveways circle each home’s larger-than-life fountain. The Orlovs have a phoenix statue in theirs to signify that no matter how many times they are knocked down, they will rise from the ashes and crush their opponents.

We Hawkinses have woodland creatures playing along the different levels of the fountain, because they’re cute and because my dad won’t say no to my mother.

Mr. Orlov may be hard of hearing, but that guy has no problem signing and yelling no to his crazy wife.

Now, Ingrid… No one says no to Ingrid.

Fuck. We’re here.

This is real.

My heart speeds up as Thatcher takes the road to his family’s house. Apparently mine will be riding over in their golf cart to meet us. I begin to chew into my cheek as we come closer. I didn’t get a say when Thatcher came barreling back into my life, but this, coming to our parents’ homes, I’m stepping into the lion’s den. No, correction—the lionesses’ den because our mothers are top-tier badasses.

They are descendants of some part of the Imperial House of Russia and have been calledprintsessafor as long as I can remember. They are sharp as tacks and know immediately when something is up. I’m honestly surprised Thatcher found me before they did. Those two are craftier than the FBI.

And I’m coming home after over three years of silence.

I’m a dead chick walking, and damn it, I’m not even wearing nice shoes.

My mom will be so disappointed.

Thatcher pulls the car, the trailer sticking out behind it, into his spot in the garage, which is by Ingrid’s BMW. I can hardly see; my heart is pounding so hard as he leans back and sighs deeply. I look over to find him watching me, his brows tightly knitted. “Ready?”

“Nope.”

“I can tell,” he says, and I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. He draws in a breath before he asks, “I know the plan was to go in with Arwen, but maybe we shouldn’t.”

My wide gaze flicks to him, and I swear I feel my heart in my throat. “I can’t go in there alone.”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, I’d never do that to you,” he says softly, and damn it, his words light me up. They soothe the terrified parts of my brain, and when his hand covers mine on my thigh, I find myself desperate for his touch. Despite knowing that it’s not a good idea to hold the hand of your baby daddy, I wrap my fingers tightly around his. “I was going to suggest I call Ingrid, have her come out and sit with Arwen since she’s napping.” I glance back just as he says that, finding my daughter knocked the hell out. Lucky duck. I wonder if I can act like I’m sleeping? “Then once we get through thewhere have you beens, andOMG, why did you leave us, andOMG, we missed you, we can have Ingrid bring her in. And surprise, Baba and Dede!” He does jazz hands like Arwen, and all I can do is gawk at him.

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