Page 59 of Faking All the Way
“We can go right now,” I say. “I don’t mind a detour at all.”
He looks over at me again, his gaze dropping to my green dress. We’re both still in our party clothes from last night, and this is the most dressed up I’ve been in a long while. “We don’t have to. I can drop you off at the cabin first and then go back to check on him.”
“That’s way out of the way though.” I shake my head. “I really don’t mind going with you. Unless…” I realize suddenly that I might be imposing, inserting myself into something private. “Unless you don’t want me to,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to intrude if this is something you need to do alone.”
“No. No, it’s fine.” He pauses, then gives me a questioning look. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I’m sure.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Really.”
He smiles back, just a small curve of his lips, but the sight of it hits me harder than it should, making my stomach do this little swoop as my pulse stutters for a few beats.
He changes direction, turning away from the route back to the cabin and heading toward what I assume is his dad’s neighborhood. We drive in comfortable silence for a while, just the sound of the heater and the windshield wipers clearing off the occasional bits of snow that fly off the hood of the car.
After about fifteen minutes, we pull up to a small ranch house on a quiet street. It’s modest but looks well-maintained, with a neat front yard buried under fresh snow. The driveway is completely buried under at least six inches of snow that clearly hasn’t been touched since the storm started last night. No wonder Asher wanted to check on his father. There’s no way someone with an injured leg could get through all that.
As we get out and approach the front door, I glance at Asher. His whole posture has changed in just the few seconds since we parked. His guard is up, his shoulders a bit stiff, his jaw tight. The easy relaxation he had a moment ago is gone. It makes me realize how much he’s not like that with me anymore. How relaxed he is when we’re alone together, how he’s let those walls down at least a little bit.
Asher knocks and we wait, our breath forming clouds in the cold air. After a moment, the door opens.
The man who answers is instantly recognizable as Asher’s father. He has the same striking blue-gray eyes, the same bone structure though it’s softened by age, and a bit of extra weight. He’s wearing a walking boot on his right leg, black and bulky, with crutches braced under his arms.
“Asher.” Edward’s voice carries surprise and something that might be cautious hope. “I wasn’t expecting you. Especially not with all this snow.”
“Dad.” The single word comes out stiff, almost formal, like he’s not used to saying it. Then Asher gestures to me somewhat awkwardly. “This is Kat. My… girlfriend. Kat, this is my father, Edward.”
He stumbles a little over the word ‘girlfriend,’ and I wonder if it’s as strange for him to say as it was when I first introduced him to my family as my boyfriend. This is a whole new person we’re telling the made up story to, a whole new branch of this sprawling deception. It makes the lie feel fresh again, less settled, when it’s been starting to feel almost comfortable around my family.
I step forward and shake Edward’s hand. His grip is firm despite the crutches. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Vaughn.”
“You too, Kat. The pleasure is mine.” He’s studying me with obvious curiosity, probably wondering what someone like me is doing with his son.
“We were in the area,” Asher says quickly, as if trying to steer the conversation back on track before his father can ask too many questions. “I wanted to check on you after the storm. Make sure you were doing okay with your leg and everything.” He gestures at our formal clothes. “We got snowed in at a party last night and had to stay over. We’re just heading back now.”
Edward nods, making a face that suggests he’d been wondering why we’re dressed like this. He starts to respond, but before he can get two words out, he’s cut off by a big orange cat running out from somewhere deeper in the house.
The cat practically crashes into Asher’s legs in his eagerness to rub against him, purring so loud I can hear it from where I’m standing.
I can’t help grinning at the sight. “This must be Murphy.”
“Yeah.” Asher reaches down to pet him, and the cat leans into his hand like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. “Hey, big guy. Miss me?”
The softness in Asher’s voice when he talks to the cat makes me smile unconsciously, and I curse my weakness for gruff men being won over by adorable animals.
Edward steps back, gesturing us inside with one crutch. “Come in, please. It’s freezing out there.”
The house is warm and lived in, decorated in that way that makes it clear he’s a bachelor—functional furniture, nothing fancy, a few newspapers scattered on the coffee table. As Edward leads us down the hall toward the living room, I notice something tucked into the frame of a mirror on the wall. A yellowed newspaper clipping, the edges curling with age. I can just make out the headline about Asher signing with what looks like his first pro team.
I blink, a little startled by the evidence that Edward has been quietly following his son’s career from a distance, keeping track of it even when they weren’t talking. I wonder if Asher has evernoticed that clipping during his visits here, and what he thought if he did.
But Asher is already shifting into business mode, his tone turning practical. “I’ll clear your driveway before we go. Where’s the shovel?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Edward protests, but there’s no real force behind it. “Really, I can manage?—”
“Where’s the shovel?” Asher repeats, giving his dad a look that quells any argument.
“In the garage. But Asher, you really don’t need to?—”
“Can I borrow some winter boots too? These dress shoes aren’t going to cut it.”
