Page 16 of The Valentine Inn

Izzy was curled up in one of the old wingback chairs that sat in front of the only woodburning fireplace left at the inn. We lovingly called this place on the lower floor of the inn, the owner’s suite. Eventually, when there was hopefully more money to go around, we would renovate the cottage behind the property near the pond and gazebo and move in there. Then we would turn this space into a family suite for guests. But that was going to be a while. Our budget was already tight.

Much like the rest of the inn, this space was out of date with its faded floral wallpaper. But there was a certain charm to the cozy space once inhabited by George and Daisy.

Izzy popped up as soon as she saw me. “You okay?”

“Not really.” I gripped the other wingback chair, feeling as if my knees might buckle.

“I’m sorry I told Drake and Martez to use the back entrance,” Izzy cried.

“It’s not your fault. I was going to tell him. I just thought I had a little more time. Did you see how furious he looked?”

Izzy bit her lip and nodded. “But this is a good thing.”

“How do you figure?”

“Oh, honey, hard truths are the best truths.”

“Where do read this stuff?” I half-heartedly teased.

“Grandma’s old Reader’s Digests.” She giggled.

“That explains a lot.”

“You got this, Char. There will be no more wondering. No more guilt. It’s Independence Day for you.”

“It feels more like a sentencing hearing.”

“I understand that, but this is for the best.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I didn’t argue with her. “I better get out there.” Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn’t need him marching in here.

“I’ll wait up.” Izzy placed her hand over mine and squeezed.

“Thank you,” I said, almost inaudibly, before I turned toward the door near the small kitchen. I shuffled all the way out, looking at my pink polka-dotted socks. They went well with my oversized sweatshirt and leggings. I wasn’t winning any beauty contests, I’ll tell you that. At least I wasn’t covered in white goo anymore.

I walked into the lobby area to find Drake pacing outside the parlor like a caged tiger.

I’d seen him like this once before, when some twit journalist, looking to make a name for himself, made up a totally fake story about Drake being a drug dealer and owing millions in back taxes. It was so bizarre and fabricated, but that hadn’t stopped some major outlets from running the trash piece. It was eventually all sorted out and the journalist lost his job, but for days Drake paced the way he was now, swearing under his breath and running his fingers through his hair on repeat, when he wasn’t yelling at his lawyers to fix it already.

I wondered if Drake would be calling his lawyers about this. I swallowed hard. Surely, he wouldn’t sue me for custody, right?

Drake was alerted to my presence. His head snapped up, and he hit me with an icy glare that made me freeze in place.

I hugged my midsection.

“When were you going to tell me, Charlotte?” he seethed.

Though I knew I was in the wrong, the ire in me flared. “When you called me back. Oh wait, you didn’t. I got a dismissive text instead,” I threw at him.

His mouth fell open, but he quickly recovered. “We obviously had more to say to each other. How could you keep this from me?” he raised his voice.

I closed my tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I even tried to, but after everything we’d been through, you didn’t even have the decency to answer my calls.” I opened my eyes to find his stubbled cheeks turning crimson. “You made it clear I was a mistake. I wasn’t going to give you the opportunity to feel that way about my son.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head as he went. He began pacing again and paced right into the parlor.

I followed him, carefully watching as his head figuratively exploded. He eventually threw himself onto one of the new cream couches in the recently updated room. We’d had some built-in bookshelves added and had stocked them with several classic novels and some of our favorite romances. The room smelled heavenly, like a library—and, if I was honest, Drake. His spicy scent wafted in the air.

I curled up in one of the gray oversized chairs across from him, wishing I had a blanket to hide under.

He gave me a cold stare. “I can’t believe this. What in the hell were you thinking, not telling me I had a child?”

“What difference would it have made to you?” I got defensive. I knew I had screwed up, but I had tried.

“I would have taken responsibility for him.”

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