I Scented My Mate On The Day I Agreed To Marry A Stranger

Chapter 1

A Consultation

Heston

“Sit tight, Dad. I’ll get the walker.”

I turned off the ignition, wishing I could whisk my father far away from the drab parking lot. Imagining we were on a beach, sipping pineapple juice and watching kids squealing as the waves threatened to topple them, I glanced at my dad, his lips set in a straight line, hands clasped in his lap.

Neither of us made a move to open our doors, and I patted his hand. What good that did, I had no idea, but it was what people did when they commiserated with another person.

“No matter what happens, we’ll get through this.

” And by “we” I was referring to him. I was a bystander, offering encouragement, acting as a chauffeur, reminding him when to take his pills, and scheduling appointments.

But it was my dad whose health was suffering and who worried, when he went to bed at night, if he’d wake up the next morning.

My phone buzzed, telling me we were due inside the building where ambulances pulled up, discharging patients, families gathered at the main entrance, hugging one another through tears, and parents placed their newborn in their car.

I grabbed Dad’s mobility walker from the trunk and put it beside his door. As I helped him out, I cursed the universe, asking why my dad and I had such lousy luck. As we walked toward the entrance, I pondered the last ten years.

My alpha father cheated on my dad and left us, eventually marrying the guy he had the affair with.

When our family was intact, we were comfortable but never rich.

But in the following years, my father made savvy business decisions and his wealth soared.

And while he had to pay alimony, he nickel and dimed us, making excuses for why he sold our house and put us in a crappy apartment and provided the lowest level medical insurance while he and his new husband went island hopping, skiing, mountain climbing, and went on safari vacations.

They built an ostentatious house with fifteen bathrooms, a waterfall, bowling alley, and a cinema, threw parties for the rich and famous, and ordered food flown in from all over the world.

My dad never complained, though, and at the end of the month when we had little money, he’d feed me and pretend he wasn’t hungry. I’d deliberately leave something on my plate, saying I was full, so he could finish it.

Dad had shit jobs after the divorce because he didn’t want to leave me at home alone. That limited the hours he could work when I was at school. I was determined to study hard, go to college, and have a high-flying career where I could buy my dad a nice home and he could enjoy retirement.

That was the dream, but dreams often faded and reality took their place; a cold hard reality that didn’t allow for dreams.

But it was increasingly obvious that Dad was worn out at the end of each workday. With my father paying for me to attend college and alimony, I told Dad to quit. I was going to get an undergrad degree, get my law degree, and join a huge law firm.

Until the day we got a phone call.

My father had collapsed on his tennis court while cursing a shot he’d hit into the net. He was dead when the paramedics arrived and tried to revive him, but my stepfather didn’t bother to call us until five days later, after Dad texted my alpha father saying the alimony was late.

He’s dead, and you’re not getting any more of his money, was the message Dad received.

With no money coming in, I quit my studies, assuring Dad when we got back on our feet, I’d go back to college. I worked at a supermarket stacking shelves at night and in a coffee shop during the day.

But our streak of bad luck was just beginning. My dad had trouble catching his breath—the smallest task exhausted him—and with our medical insurance canceled, paying for a doctor’s visit and tests forced me to borrow money from a friend, promising I’d pay him back at the end of the month.

Today was TRD Day; test result day.

Neither of us wanted to face the doctor, his face organised and squashed into the medical textbook version of “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m so glad it’s not me” expression.

Not knowing was worse than knowing, but that was a lie I’d told myself.

Not that it mattered now because we were about to be presented—or perhaps confronted was a better description—with the test results.

“It’s a lovely day. Maybe I can get us takeout for lunch.

” Too late, I realized my mistake. We couldn’t afford healthy takeout, especially as I’d taken a day off for this doctor’s visit.

The money in my account that wasn’t already earmarked for rent, electricity, gas, and fuel was enough for a burger and fries. Not what the doctor recommended.

“There are leftovers in the fridge.” My dad stared straight ahead, his voice giving no hint of the fear he carried inside him.

Today, more than any day since my parents’ divorce, I hated my dead father.

He’d refused to buy the place where we were living.

If he had, we wouldn’t be facing such a dire predicament.

I ground my teeth but stopped when I reasoned I didn’t have the money for a dentist, and that would be Father’s ultimate fuck-you; me in agonizing pain and Dad… Nope, I couldn’t finish the thought.

Blinking away tears, I stood behind my dad as he pushed the walker up the ramp.

An orderly offered him a wheelchair, and while he may have been tempted to accept so as not to shuffle into an elevator and along a hallway to the doctor’s office, he refused.

He considered the walker an “aid,” but a wheelchair was acknowledging how ill he was.

After waiting for countless doctors in recent months, I’d figured there were two types of people in a waiting area; those who flicked through magazines before tossing them back on the rack or table; and those who stared endlessly at a spot on the wall.

Dad was the latter, while I was a scan-the-glossy-pages kinda guy.

But today, instead of the photos of celebs with tanned skin and bright white veneers, I pictured the text we’d received from my stepfather, notifying us of Father’s death. Screw him.

I fisted my hands, which was safer than teeth grinding, I hoped. While Sebastian, or “the step” as I sometimes thought of him, technically owed us nothing, he was sitting on millions, millions my father earned, and I received not one cent as I’d been left out of the will.

Screw you, dear old dad.

Legally, he didn’t have to leave me anything, and while we weren’t close after the divorce, when I was younger, I’d spend every second weekend with Father.

The husband made himself scarce when I was around.

Not that he left the house. Nope, he stayed in one wing and there were rules about where I could go.

Often, I stayed in my room doing homework or playing video games while Father worked.

The nurse called my dad’s name, and I held him while he got to his feet. I smiled, but it probably didn’t meet my eyes. His pale cheeks and ragged breath were a source of worry, and if we hadn’t been at the hospital, I would have raced him to the ER.

“How are you today, Mr. Davidson?” I studied the doctor’s face. Yep, he had his commiserating face in place, all ready to go.

Dad had kept Father’s name after the divorce because it was my name too, but since my father’s death, we’d discussed him reverting to his own name and me giving Davidson the chop. Maverick, Dad’s family name, was my middle one.

“I have your test results.”

I reached for Dad’s hand. I focused on individual words rather than sentences. Words such as bypass surgery and blocked arteries in big red uppercase letters stuck in my mind as the doctor droned on.

“And what if I don’t have the surgery?” He pulled out sheets of paper from his pocket. “It says here medications can be just as effective, if not more so. And this surgery is risky.”

Dad had done his research while I’d been biting my nails, thinking of the money we’d need for doctors and refusing to contemplate a worst-case scenario.

The doctor nodded.

Here we go. More doctor speak.

“True for some patients, but for you, surgery is the only option.”

He let that sink in until I reminded him we had no insurance. His deer-in-the-headlights expression told me he’d not remembered that, and the tapping on the computer keyboard confirmed it.

“How much?” I hated that I had to ask. As much of an asshat as Father was, he wouldn’t have quibbled at paying this. Before his death, he’d spoken fondly of Dad, suggesting there might be problems in his new marriage.

The doctor printed out a list of the expenses, and I ran my finger down the list, stopping at his enormous fee.

We can’t pay this. Not if I work my dead-end jobs and save every dollar. But if I don’t, Dad will die.