“Oh my God. Have I really not brought up Bill before now? He’s become my BFF.” He laughs and picks up his phone, holding it up for me to see.
It’s a picture of an adorable dog.
“Oh my goodness!”
“He found his way to me, and I don’t know how I survived without him. He’s a mini dachshund.”
“He’s so cute. I’ve never seen one like that. His eyes are so pretty!”
“I hadn’t seen one like him before either. He’s a brown and tan merle,” he says proudly.
“Named Bill.” I laugh. “Not what I’d expect, but then everything about you is unexpected.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He leans over and kisses my cheek and lifts his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll finish up and we can be on our way. Grab a drink or whatever you need.”
I nod. “I think I’ll grab some water.”
He squeezes my waist and goes upstairs. I wander toward his kitchen and take a different hallway that I haven’t been down. This house is huge—I don’t even know how many rooms there are.
I come across a library that stops me in my tracks. I can’t resist going inside. Three of the walls have floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and then on the fourth is a picture wall. I stop and stare at the pictures, smiling as I pick out Dylan from all his siblings. His family is beautiful, and I go down the row of pictures, coming to a stop when I see a picture of his whole family. I frown when I see his parents. There’s something familiar about them.
“You found my favorite room.”
I jump when I hear Dylan’s voice and I turn, clutching my hand to my throat.
“It’s beautiful. Dylan…your parents…they look so familiar. And I realized…this is crazy. I don’t even know your last name.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re right. Did we really not ever say our last names? I could’ve sworn I said, but yeah, I have no idea what your last name is. I guess we’ve been preoccupied with other things.” His eyes crinkle with his smile.
“Granger. Dahlia Granger.”
His mouth drops. “Whitman. Dylan Whitman.”
“Oh, shit,” we say at the same time.
CHAPTER NINE
THE TRUTH IS…
DYLAN
“Who’s your dad?” I ask.
“Bruce Granger.”
I wince. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Who’s yours?” she asks, looking like she already knows the answer.
“Everett Whitman.”
“Yeah. Right. Okay.” She fans her face with her hand, and I put my hands on my waist and exhale.
“Well, fuck.” I swipe my hand down my face and look at her. “What are the chances?”
“There is no one my dad hates more than your dad,” she says quietly. “And he hates a lot of people.”
“I haven’t known my dad to hate anyone,” I say. “But he intensely dislikes your dad.”
