Passionate Proposals. Andrea Laurence
time. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I needed to come anyway.”
“I think we’ve got a lot of talking to do while you’re here,” Georgia managed.
“That we do.” Turning away, Misty patted the cushions of the couch. “I think this will be comfortable enough. It’s a really nice couch. It’s got to be better than the cot at the shelter.”
Georgia felt a pang of guilt for putting her mother on the couch. She got to sleep in a nice bed every night; she should let her mother do it while she was here. “You know what, Mom? Why don’t you take my bed upstairs? It’s a nice memory foam bed, so you’ll be comfortable. I can sleep down here.”
“Oh no,” Misty argued. “I didn’t tell you all that to make you feel bad.”
“Really. It’s not a problem. Let’s take your things upstairs and I can show you around.”
Her mother followed her upstairs to the loft bedroom that overlooked the living room. The large bed took up the center of the space with a luxurious en suite bath. Georgia set her bag down on the foot of the bed. “Hopefully you’ll be comfortable up here.”
Misty looked around and slipped out of her sweater. That exposed even more scars, blended in with a swirl of tattoos that disappeared beneath her short-sleeved shirt. “They’re track marks,” she said, noticing Georgia looking. “Well, not all of them. Some of them are leftover from my cutting phase.”
Georgia knew her mother had a heroin problem, but she hadn’t heard about the cutting. “You cut yourself?”
She nodded. “Yes. That was from my younger years. I was a messed-up kid. Cutting myself made me feel better. It was my only release. At least until I found drugs and sex.” She shook her head and ran her palms over her bare arms. “I should’ve stuck with the cutting. I didn’t hurt anyone but myself.”
Georgia couldn’t help giving her mother another hug. She was the parent, the one who should be comforting her daughter, but in reality, Misty was just a lost child. Georgia wasn’t sure she wanted to know about what set her down this path of self-destruction, but she knew she wanted to help her make a different life for herself.
“You’re turning things around,” she said. “You’ve got plenty of time to live a different life.”
“Do you think so?” Misty asked. Her gray eyes, exactly like Georgia’s, were red and brimming with tears.
“I know so.”
“The results are back.”
Carson had opened the front door of his loft expecting to see Georgia, but instead he found Graham and Brooks standing there. Graham was holding a large envelope. All thoughts of his dinner plans with her evaporated when he realized what it was. He had been awaiting and dreading this moment all week.
“Have you looked at the results yet?”
“No,” Graham said. “I practiced an amazing amount of restraint because I thought it was best that we all look at it together.”
“With alcohol,” Brooks added, holding up an expensive bottle of tequila in one hand and a bag of limes in the other.
“That’s probably wise,” Carson noted.
Stepping back, he let his brothers in. He expected them to want to rush to the results, considering how hard they’d worked to uncover the truth and how long they’d waited. But they took their time. Graham poured shots while Brooks sliced up a few limes. Carson just watched anxiously, tapping his fingers on the quartz countertops while he waited.
There was something final about reading the lab report, like the end of an era. For their whole lives, their father had been a mystery to them. Carson was certain that each of them had entertained private fantasies about what their father was really like and what he would say to them if they ever came face-to-face. It was possible that this envelope could shatter those fantasies once and for all. If the test results came back positive, the mystery was over and they were left with the cold, hard reality of Sutton Winchester being their father.
If the results were negative, they had to start back at square one. This time with no leads to follow. The only evidence they’d found pointed to Sutton. If he wasn’t the answer, Carson was at a loss for where to look next.
As he looked down at the envelope, their mother’s words echoed through his mind. You’re better off without your father in your life, she’d said. What if she was right? This was their last chance to change their minds.
“Are you guys sure you want to do this?” Carson asked.
“Are you serious?” Graham asked.
“Yes, I’m serious.” Carson picked up the envelope and held it up. “Once we open this thing, there’s no going back. Mom kept our father out of our lives for a reason. Maybe it was the right decision.”
“Maybe, but we’ve come too far to turn back now,” Brooks argued. “Besides, Sutton will have the results, too. It’s too late to change our minds. We’re going to find out one way or another.”
“You’re right,” Carson admitted and tossed the envelope back onto the counter. And it was true. They were past the point of no return.
Graham handed a shot out to each of them. “Let’s do one to take the edge off before we open the results. What shall we drink to?”
“The truth,” Carson offered. Good or bad, at least they’d finally have that.
“The truth,” his brothers repeated in unison. Together they all drank their shots of smooth tequila, not even needing the limes when they were through. They sat their shot glasses down and one by one, their gazes returned to the unopened envelope.
“Hurry up and open it,” Brooks said at last. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Who wants to read it aloud?” Graham asked as he slid his finger beneath the seal and opened the envelope.
“You do it,” Carson said. “You’re the one who made this happen.”
Graham pulled out two sheets of paper, one with Carson’s results and one with the twins’ results. “Okay. Let’s start with Carson.” His gaze danced back and forth across the paper for a moment, making Carson’s stomach tangle into knots as he waited. Not even the tequila could tame it.
“The alleged father, Sutton Winchester, cannot be excluded as the biological father of the child, Carson Newport, since they share genetic markers. Using the above systems, the probability of paternity is 99.99%, as compared to an untested, unrelated man of the Caucasian population.”
“We were right,” Brooks said.
Carson didn’t know how to react to the news. He’d braced himself for this moment, part of him hoping Sutton wasn’t his father and part of him hoping he was, just so he’d have the answer at last. Well, now he had it. He was that old bastard’s son. He’d known in his heart that he was, but having the official confirmation just sealed it in his mind.
The man he’d been looking for his whole life, the one his mother warned him about, had been right under his nose the whole time. Sutton had always treated him like a nuisance. The Newport Corporation and its owners were just an annoying fly buzzing around the King of Chicago’s crown. He’d never once treated them like anything else, certainly not like his own children. It was one thing not to be able to publicly acknowledge your illegitimate sons, but to deliberately handle them like pebbles in his shoe their whole lives...
“Carson, are you okay?” Brooks asked.
He realized that he’d been holding his breath and let it out in one big burst. “Yes.” He reached for the tequila bottle and did another shot without them. “Let’s read yours and