Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

WES

“Mind if I sit here?”

I turn at the sound of Murphy’s voice, surprise ricocheting through me as she plops down next to me with a smile on her face.

I blink a few times, my mind freezing up because I don’t know how to feel about seeing her.

Obviously I’m always glad to see her. But this really isn’t a good time.

And clearly my thoughts are written all over my face because the smile on hers disappears quickly.

I glance past her briefly, then shift in my seat when Gabriel approaches with a new coaster and a fresh beer, setting them both down in front of me.

“Here you are,” he says before turning to look at Murphy. “Another glass?”

“No, I’m actually—” She glances at me. “I’m good for now, thanks.”

He nods, then moves down the bar to help another gentleman, and the tension in my shoulders eases.

Tonight is the first time I’ve actually spoken with my father since the time I came to The Standard a few days after I moved to Rosewood. I haven’t told him who I am—haven’t even given him my name—but we struck up a conversation about the recent Giants game.

In my previous visits, I was always looking at his face and his body, trying to find the similarities. But tonight, when he started talking to me, I finally saw the connection between us. His voice is like a deeper, raspier version of my own, and the way he moves his hands when he talks feels like I’m looking in a mirror that shows the future.

I’m not ready to share this with Murphy. I’m not ready to share it with anybody. Not even Ash.

“I’m actually … kind of busy,” I finally tell her, the words coming out stiff and uncomfortable.

The last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings or make her think that I don’t want her around. Any other day, any other place, sitting on the stool next to me would have been a perfect move. Another opportunity for us to talk, for me to learn more about the little quirks that make up Murphy Hawthorne.

But tonight is not that night. My head is not in the right place to manage what might come from her sitting here, next to me, as I try to get to know a father who has no idea who I am.

“Sorry for bothering you,” she says, then moves to walk past me.

“Murphy,” I say, grabbing her hand and halting her in her tracks. “I’ll explain later, okay?”

She seems to assess me, as if she wants to be sure I really mean it, before nodding and walking off. I watch her go, her petite figure crossing the room and pushing out through the front door and into the warm air of another early-summer night.

I sigh and turn back to my beer, knowing that when Murphy and I talk later, she’s going to want to understand why I brushed her off tonight. And I’ll need to come up with a reason, whether that’s the truth or something else.

“She’s a pretty thing.” Gabriel steps in front of me with a smirk. “I’m surprised you turned her down. Got someone at home?”

Shaking my head, I rotate the beer between my hands. “No, nobody at home.”

“A good-looking guy like you should have somebody. Or maybe quite a few somebodies.”

I shrug, not really wanting to talk to him about Murphy. “You from around here?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation.

“That I am. I grew up in St. Helena, then moved to San Francisco for a few years before coming to Rosewood.”

I bob my head. “And do you have anybody at home?”

He grins at that, tugs his phone from his back pocket, and lights it up so I can see the home screen. “My wife, Gigi, and my son. Preston.” He pulls the phone back and looks down at it, affection clear in his eyes. “He just turned twelve.”

I don’t hear a lot of what he says after that, just a rushing sound filling my ears. I’m thankful when he steps away to help someone else.

I tug my wallet out of my pocket, blindly grab a few bills, and place them next to my beer. Then I’m out of my seat and crossing the room, shoving the door open as I gasp. I try desperately to breathe, but it feels like my body is screaming, like the walls are caving in.

It takes everything inside me to stumble down the street and get into my car, but I don’t turn it on. Instead I sit there, gripping the steering wheel, trying to get back in control of myself. Trying to overcome the anxiety attack that feels like it’s crippling me.