Gregory should be just minutes away by the time I drain the broccoli and pour it with the sauce into the blender. I’m about to place the lid on the blender when I smell burning.
‘Chips!’
I ditch the lid and fling open the oven door to expose a load of hot, smoky air.
‘Crap!’
I pull the chips from the oven and rest them on a chopping board in their tray, utterly inedible. I turn back to the blender and just as I flick the switch to ON, the smoke alarm starts to sound, then the contents of the blender is swished out of the top where I’ve forgotten to place the lid. Warm soup is spitting all over me, the smoke alarm is blazing, I’m screaming and I can’t find the OFF switch. As I pull the plug from the wall, Gregory bursts through the apartment door, closely followed by Jackson, panic evident on their faces. Gregory stops when he sees me and Jackson almost runs into the back of him.
Wiping soup from my face with the back of my hand, I look down to see the cheesy liquid splattered over my body from head to toe. Ed Sheeran stops singing about building a Lego house. The black chips stare at me from the bench. The smoke alarm is still blazing.
Raising my arms up with what I hope is an adorable smile, I say, ‘I tried.’
Jackson is first to laugh, then we’re all at it, though Gregory’s laugh is short-lived. Jackson takes a tea towel from the bench and wafts it under the smoke alarm until it’s silent.
‘You went out then?’ Gregory asks.
‘I hate to state the obvious but I’ve been going outdoors without supervision for about twenty years.’
Jackson quietly takes himself off to his room.
‘Things are different right now.’
‘What happened?’
He sighs. ‘Get yourself cleaned up and we’ll talk. Is there anything we can salvage here?’
‘A bottle of wine and cheesy-soup-covered steak.’
‘I’ll order in. And next time, tell me if you want a home-cooked meal. I employ Amy for that.’
By the time I’ve showered, changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt and blow-dried my hair, two steaks have arrived, not covered in cheesy soup and certainly cooked better than I would have managed. Gregory is pouring the wine, his shirt unbuttoned by three but still tucked into his navy trousers. Too damn sexy.
‘Maybe this was a better idea,’ I concede.
He slides a glass of wine in my direction and leans forwards, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen island.
‘This can’t be good.’
He takes a drawn-out drink from his glass.
‘Don’t try to sugarcoat it; just tell me.’
‘This was hand-delivered to the office today,’ he says, unfolding an old-looking document onto the island and sliding it across to me.
I’m looking at the birth certificate of Gregory James Pearson but there’s a cross made with pen through his name. Next to the field for Mother, there’s also a cross through Lara Olivia Pearson. The only name not crossed is that next to Father, Kevin James Pearson.
‘Your birth certificate?’
‘Ryans is my mother’s maiden name.’
‘Okay. And this was delivered to your office?’
‘I spoke to my mother earlier and she said she hasn’t had it since South Africa. We just left; there were things she didn’t have time to find. If we could buy it or replace it, we left it.’
‘So you think Pearson had this and delivered it to your office?’
‘This afternoon, when you were there. The notes, the?—’
