38. Who Said I’m Angry?
Chapter 38
Who Said I’m Angry?
MEGAN
L ena pepper kisses across Deuce’s chubby belly, gently lifting him into the air with the ease of someone who has done this a million times before. His bright-eyed giggles fill the room, his tiny hands grasping at the air, reaching for her. My heart melts at the sight.
“Who’s your favorite auntie?” she coos, her voice dripping with exaggerated affection.
Deuce lets out another delighted squeal, utterly enchanted by Lena, which is no surprise. She has a natural way with him, her energy always playful yet protective.
“You’re his only auntie,” I remind her with a knowing smirk.
“Which is why I’m his favorite ,” she quips, flashing me a smug grin before blowing a raspberry against Deuce’s stomach.
I watch them for a moment, soaking in the easy warmth between them before she abruptly levels me with a pointed look.
“Now, remind me why you’re still here?”
Hunter had practically vibrated with excitement when I told him about my meeting with Linda John. Within a matter of hours, he had gone full alpha-mode, securing a private studio space for me so I could finish my piece without distractions. And he wasn’t wrong—if I stayed here, I’d spend every spare second hovering over Deuce instead of painting.
I sigh dramatically. “Stop rushing me.”
“Your painting isn’t going to paint itself,” Lena scolds. “Now skedaddle. Deuce and I will be fine.”
“Skedaddle?” I arch an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you that you use sayings like a seventy-year-old woman?”
“I worked with a lot of seventy-year-olds at the shelter,” she fires back. “They were amazing people, so thank you for the compliment.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
I lean down, pressing a lingering kiss against Deuce’s soft little lips. His sleepy baby scent—powder, milk, and something uniquely him—fills my senses.
I could stay here all day.
But Lena is right.
If I want to see my painting hanging in the Starlight exhibit, I have to get to work.
When I step into the lobby, I spot Lars sitting in one of the sleek leather chairs, his broad frame hunched slightly as he focuses on his phone. His usually impassive face is uncharacteristically soft, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Then, something startling happens.
He smiles.
I freeze in my tracks. I have rarely seen Lars smile. It’s almost like spotting a unicorn in the wild.
It’s not big, but it’s there—a small, quiet thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth. He’s on a video call, and his deep voice is lower, softer than usual. It’s so human, so intimate, that I feel like I’ve accidentally walked in on something private.
Then he notices me.
His expression snaps back into place, his posture going rigid as he ends the call with a quick word.
I approach with my bags, curiosity buzzing inside me like an electrical current.
He stands, effortlessly taking my bags from my hands. “Let me get those.”
We settle into the car, and I try to push down the urge to ask what I just walked in on. But the longer we drive, the more my curiosity burns.
Finally, I can’t help myself. “Who were you talking to, Lars?”
His gray-blue eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror, unreadable as ever. “Hmm?”
“On the video call,” I press. “Who was that?”
He hesitates.
For a split second, I swear I see a flicker of uncertainty in his usually impenetrable gaze.
Then he exhales.
“My daughter.”
I blink. My brain short-circuits.
“Wait—your what ?” I nearly gasp.
I’ve known Lars for a long damn time. He’s Hunter’s right-hand man, a shadow in the background of my life—always watching, protecting, never revealing anything personal.
And now, he’s casually telling me he has a daughter?
“You’ve never mentioned that you have children.”
His expression remains stoic, but there’s something guarded in his tone. “Are you surprised?” His accent—usually faint— becomes more pronounced, his Nordic roots suddenly peeking through.
“Well, yeah , Lars.” I stare at him, still processing. “Does Hunter know?”
He nods once. “Yes.”
And that pisses me off a little.
Hunter knew.
Of course, he did.
And he didn’t tell me.
I cross my arms, fuming in the backseat. “Don’t be angry.”
I scoff. “Who said I’m angry?”
Lars gives me a knowing look in the mirror.
“I’m not angry!” I insist, even though my tone is a little too sharp to be convincing.
A beat of silence passes.
Then, his voice is lower, more measured. “My past is complicated, Megan.”
I exhale, trying to temper my annoyance.
“There’s no need to explain,” I say, even though I do want an explanation.
“Then why are you angry?”
“Oh my God, Lars.” I throw my hands up. “I said I’m not angry!”
A long pause.
Then, finally—his voice drops into something quieter.
“My Elsa is twenty-four years old.”
That stuns me into silence.
“Twenty-four?” I echo.
Lars nods. “Her mother moved her to London when she was small.” He exhales, his fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. “Today was the first time I’ve spoken to her in three years.”
My stomach twists.
Shit.
“And I interrupted that?” I whisper.
“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “The call was basically over.”
I frown. “You haven’t spoken to your daughter in three years, and the call was over ?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m done talking now.”
And just like that, the wall is back up.
I stare at him, my chest aching with something I can’t quite name.
I’ve spent my life yearning for the kind of father that Lars could have been. A father who protected, cared, loved.
I bet his daughter doesn’t even know how lucky she is.
***
The moment I step into my new studio, my breath catches.
It’s beautiful.
The space is expansive and sunlit, with exposed brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the room with golden afternoon light.
Everything is set up perfectly.
A freshly assembled easel stands in the center. Jars of clean paintbrushes rest on the work table. A cold lunch waits on the counter—because, of course, Hunter thought of everything.
I should be thrilled.
But instead, I stand there, phone in hand, glaring at the unsent text I’ve rewritten five times.
I want to tell Hunter that I hate how easily he keeps secrets from me.
That I can’t believe he never told me about Lars’s daughter.
That it bothers me more than I care to admit.
Just as I perfect my wording, my phone rings.
For a second, I assume it’s Hunter—maybe his ears are burning.
But then I see the name flashing across my screen.
Not Hunter.
Not even close.
It’s the number saved under “Lying Ass Bitch.”
Naomi.
What the hell does she want?