“I do,” I admit before I can think of anything else to say.
Hopper shifts, tilting his head the other way. “But you’ve never talked to him?”
I press my lips together and drop my chin, staring at the finished concrete.
I take a breath.
Then another.
“I have, actually.” I rock forward and back, then raise my head to look him in the eye. “But he doesn’t know I’m his son.”
Hopper’s brows shoot up. “Oh.” His hand goes to his chest. “Is there a reason you don’t want to tell him?”
“I…haven’t told my parents yet. And I don’t want them to think I don’t love and appreciate my dad and everything he gave me. It’s just…”
I rub my chest.
“Your birth father is the missing piece,” Hopper says, filling in the blank.
I nod.
“Are you ever going to tell your parents?”
“When the time is right.”
Hopper stands there, his priceless fingers playing on the air, working out the hue, value, and depth of my life. The shape and texture of it forming in his own mind’s eye.
“So…if you don’t look like your parents, you must’ve always wondered what your birth father looked like,” he says, his observation cutting straight to the heart of it.
“I did.”
“And do you?” he asks, tapping his chest as he takes in my brows and high Italian cheekbones. “Do you look like him?”
“Yes, I do.” My chin trembles, and I bounce on the balls of my feet. “We don’t look exactly alike, but we share a lot of the same features. We, uh, we have the same unique eye color.”
Hopper’s gaze tracks to my eyes. I’m standing under one of the many skylights, and sunrays reveal the depth of their dark navy-blue color.
His body, forever moving, goes unnaturally still. His eyes trace every detail of my face, as if for the first time. Then, a soft sigh of recognition.
“Boone?” he asks gently. “What is your mother’s name?”
21
MAVERICK
I don’t expectanyone to be home as I make my way down from the pool, but H and H have made it back to the condo and are standing on either side of the bar that divides the living room and kitchen, chatting.
I can’t wait to talk to them about Boone. Maybe I’ll even tell them about my purple belt.
Holmes sees me in the foyer, though, and stands back, dropping the conversation.
Honoré turns and sends me a smile. “Hey, cuz. Didn’t know you were home.”
Ignoring the weird vibe, I ask, “Where were y’all last night?”
“Classified,” Holmes says with a regretful twist, and I rub my chest.
About a week ago, I had the worst sense of dread and called him immediately. He didn’t get back to me for five hours, and when he said he was fine, I knew he was lying.
