Page 41 of Hearts Don't Lie
She contemplated him, then exhaled loudly. “Okay. Thanks. You can probably help Chase. Can we keep this between us for now?”
“Sure. How are you going to explain me, my appearance and assistance?”
“I’ll think up something plausible.” She clasped and unclasped her hands and took a deep breath. “Something’s been eating at me since I last saw you. I’ve never understood how… how… We were careful.”
Hardin’s eyes held hers. He nodded. “We were, but when those cops showed up, um… things didn’t quite perform the way they were supposed to. When I was pulling out… Fuck… It crossed my mind, but I thought,what are the chances?” He rubbed his face and shook his head. “I never got to tell you. I was going to, but then everything just snowballed.”
Her expression was difficult for him to read.
“I’m sorry. I was going to say something, but—”
“What were the chances that all this would unfold as it has?” She gave him a sad smile. “At least you’ve solved the mystery. I couldn’t figure that out for the life of me.”
“We have a lot to talk about.”
“We do.”
“When are we going to tell Stowe?”
“Tell me what?” Their son materialized with a confused expression, gripping a thermos of coffee, his eyes—the same shape and shade of aqua as Hardin’s—moving between them. Surprise filled his face. “Wow! You look like Hardin Ambrose!”
How the hell to handle this?Stunned speechless by the appearance of his son, of seeing a younger version of himself, Hardin looked to Mac for guidance. How was he supposed to act? He didn’t want his son to think he was some pussy.
Mac cleared her throat and encircled their son with her arm, squeezing him and giving him a peck on his cheek. The transformation from anguish to being present for her son was astounding. “Morning to you! Thought I’d see you later this morning, after breakfast.”
“Didn’t sleep so well. Grady farted all night—our tent smelled like dookie.”
Hardin burst out laughing, and that went a long way to easing his tension. He looked up and caught his son’s grin and proud expression. Was it because he’d made Hardin Ambrose, the international footballer, laugh?
“I see. And breakfast?” she asked, smirking.
“We kinda inhaled the food. I’m still hungry.”
“How ’bout I make some bacon and eggs? You see to Homer. Are you hungry, Hardin?” she asked, looking past their son, whose eyes were as big as his open mouth, her brown eyes dancing with merriment.
“You are him?” Stowe asked, astonished, turning to his mom. “Is he?”
“I am,” Hardin said, feeling gobsmacked and smiling warmly while reminding himself to be cautious. Take it slow. Put himself in his son’s shoes. A stranger vying for his mom’s attention. “I can always eat.” He winked at Mac while Stowe was engaged in looking at her.Two can play this game, babe.She flushed a pretty shade of red.
“You never said you knew him!”
“‘Him’ is in the room,” she admonished their son, nodding at Hardin. Then, more gently, she explained. “Hardin and I knew each other in high school.”
“That issocool!Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Stowe’s brow furrowed, and he studied Hardin intently. “How well did you know my mom?”
It was all Hardin could do to not squirm in his seat under his son’s intense examination, so he stood instead. “Mac, why don’t you take this?”
“Mac?”
She narrowed her eyes at Hardin, then answered her son. “Hardin used to call me Mac.”
“Come on. I still do.”
“Why?” Stowe asked.
“For McKenna. Mac was Hardin’s nickname for me.”
“McKenna? Aren’t you Kenna?”
Hardin crossed his arms and leaned against the island, wanting to see how she handled the disclosure with Stowe. His crash course in parenting was now in session.
“I am. I was ready for a change when I moved to Colorado. Kenna felt fresh.”
Hardin kept his face devoid of expression. It was an honest answer, a safe answer. For now.
