Page 30 of Hidden Heir

“That your business burned to the ground.”

There’s a flash of pain in her eyes and her hands come together at her abdomen. Long fingers fold together as Brooke worries her bottom lip then shrugs and looks away. “I don’t know. You were busy. Rik told me you had something really important today so I was focusing on Tiff.”

I glance over at her daughter sleeping peacefully, a flurry of emotions clashing within—sympathy for Brooke, irritation at myfather, anger at myself. I told her she would be safe here and one thing my father taught me was to always keep my promises. That means all of them, even the ones he doesn’t agree with.

“Have you eaten?” I ask as my gaze darts back to Brooke.

“Not yet.”

“Come with me.” Instructing Rik to stay with Tiff, I lead Brooke down to the kitchen and begin rummaging around in the cupboards for something to make a decent dinner. The meeting I abandoned with the Italians crosses my mind.

I’ll make it up to them later. This is more important.

Soon, pasta is bubbling on the stove while Brooke grates cheese and I sauté garlic, shallots, and rosemary in a pan.

“Tell me about your business.”

The grating stops briefly and Brooke lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “I might cry if I tell you.”

“That’s alright.”

“Do you remember the night we met?”

I bite my tongue so I don’t answer too eagerly. Barking out an enthusiastic yes will surely give the wrong impression, so I nod instead.

“I told you that I was celebrating a work thing. It wasn’t a promotion or anything like that. I was celebrating the fact that I finally had enough money to put down a deposit on my shop and being able to sign on the dotted line. It was the best day of my life. So much had gone wrong up until that moment, but the second I signed that paper, it felt like I was stepping into a part of my life that was just for me, you know?” She resumes her grating at a slower pace. “It was my own business. My chance to make money while doing what I loved. Something self-taught that I’d learned through social media and videos, books at the library, listening to elderly people talk down at the allotments near where I grew up. I always knew I wanted to do flowers.”

She speaks from a place of honest love. I can tell by the tone of her voice and the subtle smile that creeps across her face that it really is her passion. It briefly reminds me of how fondly my father used to speak about the garden he poured so much love into with my mother. He hasn’t stepped foot out there since she passed.

“I would pour myself into posts, advertising my home grown flowers and displays, showcasing every step of growth just so viewers could trust that my arrangements were natural and beautiful because of love. I had so many clients but still hit a bit of a rough patch…” She trails off slightly. “But what business doesn’t?” Gathering the grated cheese into a bowl, she moves next to me.

In the low light, I catch a few unshed tears clinging to her lashes.

“Now it’s all gone and I…” Her breath shudders. “I have clients I’ll need to call. And the bank, the insurance company, and…” She rubs one hand over her cheek, her gaze on my pan as I add in chopped tomatoes, mixed spices, and a bit of water, slowly letting the sauce come to a simmer.

“Do you know who would do something like that?”

Brooke looks up at me with a shocked expression. “You think someone did it?”

“You don’t?”

Her gaze slides away. “I guess I just assumed it was an accident. Faulty wiring or something.”

I’d believe her if her tone wasn’t so uncertain. Someone did this. It’s too much of a coincidence to believe otherwise. “The man that attacked you and followed you, do you think he would do such a thing?”

“No,” Brooke replies instantly, making me unwilling to believe her.

She tries to laugh it off and sniffles. “Maybe the person that broke into my store came back for round two.”

Something isn’t adding up. I’m inclined to believe that whoever broke into her store and attacked her is the same person, given how coincidences like that don’t exist in my world. But Brooke is still cagey regarding details about her life. Her tale of always wanting to become a florist is the most I’ve gotten out of her since she arrived.

I can’t fault her. I did immediately distance myself.

“I will have my people look into it,” I say.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says quickly. “That would be a waste of time. It was probably some kid who didn’t know any better.”

“Arson is arson,” I reply simply.

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