Chapter 15
Xavier
A slight breeze raced across the charred grass, blowing away the remaining tendrils of smoke and bringing with it a fresh scent that did little to settle the churning in my mind.
I rubbed my palms over my stained and ripped pants, trying to anchor my swirling thoughts, and turned to Cassidy. "That call changed my life forever."
"Woah. That’s a big statement. What do you mean?" Cassidy adjusted her position on the cottage step and looked at me. Her expression confirmed she wanted my honesty.
In my line of business, people used honesty like a tailored jacket.
They wore it when it suited them and shoved it away the rest of the time.
I wasn't like that, and I expected those I trusted to do the same in return.
But after my mother's systematic deceit, I might never be able to trust anyone again.
I stared at the paddock stretching away from the cottage, dotted with blackened scrub and a massive, charred termite mound. The silence was broken only by the rustle of wind through the burned grass and some birds chirping in the trees above the cottage.
No traffic noise. No sirens. No hum of a city that never shut up.
It was so peaceful it almost hurt my ears.
I turned back to Cassidy's gaze. "Every day, all day, I field a lot of calls.
" I dragged my memory back to the day I took that call from Australia.
"I speak to investors, lawyers, executives—people who talk in circles for fun.
Every second caller wants a piece of me.
I barely take any of them seriously, but your call was … interesting, to say the least."
Cassidy's mouth twitched, like she didn't know whether to be insulted or amused.
"It wasn't Frank who called me, was it?" I asked.
"No. Sorry about that. It was Mitch, my oldest brother.
" She picked at a splinter on the cottage step with her short fingernail.
The women I associated with nearly every day would rather die than have fingernails like Cassidy's.
But I liked the ruggedness about her. Her rawness was refreshing, and she was more real than any of them.
"I have no idea why he pretended to be Frank. "
I pulled off my other shoe and laid it out in the sunshine next to the first one.
"It's not very often I speak to Australians, so his accent caught me off-guard." I shrugged. "That, and he didn't sound like someone playing games."
Cassidy chuckled. "That's Mitch. He's good at sounding like he's about to punch something."
"Yeah, that's the impression I got." I tugged off my sock, twisted out the water, and tossed it onto the ground next to my shoes.
"After your call, I pulled up our records to see if we'd ever done business in Australia, but I couldn't find anything."
Cassidy's eyes narrowed slightly. "But you found something, right?"
I held her stare. "I found that our records had gaps. So I called our archivist."
"Your what?" Cassidy scrunched her nose in that cute way that captured my attention way too much.
I forced my gaze back to my shoes, baking in the sun. "Hawthorne Global has been around for nearly sixty years, and we have interests all over the world. I asked for anything related to Australia. Any deal. Any failed deal. Any reference to the name Branson."
"And?"
"And there was nothing." I released a bitter laugh. The irony was that if the records from over thirty years ago had been left the way they were, I probably wouldn't have dug any deeper. But once I realized they'd been tampered with, I knew something was going on.
Cassidy tugged the bands from the ends of her braids and teased out her hair. She paused to look at me. "But …"
"But there were gaps in some details," I said. "Our records don't have gaps unless someone made them."
"You sound like my brother, Declan. He doesn't miss anything either."
"See? Maybe it's not so far-fetched that I'm related."
She scowled at me like I was completely nuts. "You're not Frank's son. Trust me. And will you get to the point about your life exploding?"
"What's your hurry? I thought you said we couldn't do anything but wait until your brothers showed up."
"Will you just …" She nudged her shoulder to mine and sucked her lips into her mouth like she was trying not to smile.
The brief contact made me more aware of how close we were sitting.
"Want me to make another coffee?" I asked, teasing.
She held the tin cup toward me. "Sure, but only if you can talk at the same time."
Chuckling, I took the cup from her. Our fingers didn't quite touch, but I was aware of how close they came. I stood quickly, and my back groaned. Pain shot across my ribs, reminding me of the beating I'd taken yesterday.
Some things had a way of making you feel alive. Bruises were one. Interest in a fascinating woman was another.
I sure hoped Cassidy was right about me not being Frank's son, because whatever I was feeling toward her sure as hell wasn't brotherly.
At the campfire, I filled the saucepan with water and settled it over the glowing coals. "One scoop or two?" I asked, holding up the tin of dried coffee.
"Two. Always two with that stuff." She stood, strolled toward me, and stopped close by. She faced the sun, and the light caught in the long waves of her hair, illuminating strands in shades of honey and amber.
Cassidy didn't press me to keep talking or do that annoying thing people do where they ask random questions just to prove they were listening.
As the water heated, I moved to stand beside her, closer than I probably should have, both of us facing the sun. "I can't remember the last time I saw a sunrise."
She snorted. "Must be nice to sleep in every day. I'm up before the crack of dawn."
"I didn't say I slept in. I said I haven’t seen a sunrise in a while."
She ran her thumb over a scar on the back of her hand, and I found myself watching the movement. "So what are you doing then?"
My throat tightened, and I contemplated hiding the truth. But I wanted her to be honest with me, and I needed to do the same. "I go to my gym every morning. Usually around 4 a.m."
She huffed. "You like to show off in front of the other gym junkies, huh?"
I wrinkled my nose. "No. I work out alone. I have a private gym."
Cassidy huffed and rolled her eyes. "Of course, you do."
I gave her a look. "Don't judge me."
She raised her hands in a peace gesture. "Not judging." She smirked, and my traitorous heart skipped a beat. "Yet."
I exhaled. "My gym is where I go when the noise in my head gets too loud, and I need to stop thinking for a bit."
Cassidy's gaze stayed fixed on my face, like she knew there was more to that reason. The intensity of her attention made my chest ache.
"I have a training pod," I said. "An altitude simulator."
Her brows shot up. "A what?"
I didn't want to go into the details, so I said, "It's a controlled environment. And peaceful. It's my alone time."
Cassidy's eyes softened, and I had the impression she knew exactly what it meant to need a place where no one could reach you. She lowered her gaze. "Water's boiling."
I squatted down and made the coffee, wondering how much she'd read into my admission about needing time out. I'd already given her more than I gave most people.
I handed her the tin cup. "Careful, it's hot."
"Thanks for the tip." Holding the cup, she walked back to the steps and sat.
I sat beside her, close enough that our shoulders were almost touching but not quite. The space between us felt charged somehow.
I resisted the urge to watch her sip the coffee.
The heat between us was easier to handle than the truth, but I hadn’t traveled eight thousand miles for easy. I wanted answers.
"Have you ever heard of Pamela Hawthorne?" I asked.
She looked to the sky, and I imagined she was searching her memory. Finally, confusion rippled across her features, and she shook her head. "Doesn't ring a bell. Who is she?"
"My mother."
"Right. What about her?"
"Mom lives in a penthouse on the Upper East Side," I said. "She has a doorman and her own private elevator."
"A penthouse? With an elevator?" Cassidy's eyes widened. "Sounds fancy. Does it have a nice view?"
"It does, but Mom didn't buy it for the view."
"No? What for then?"
"Prestige." I heaved a breath. "It's not a home, it's a statement. Everything in that penthouse is curated. The art. The furniture. The rugs. The crockery. Even the scent—it's always the same. It smells expensive and clean, like no one's allowed to breathe in there."
"Sounds bloody horrible." Cassidy snorted and handed the cup to me.
I sipped the bitter coffee and couldn't decide if the bitterness was from the Blend 43 or the image of the last time I’d seen my mother burning in my mind. She'd had tears streaming mascara down her cheeks. Her nails had dug into my wrists as she'd pleaded with me to listen to her bullshit.
"After your call, when I couldn't find any records, I went to find Mom at her penthouse. It was the middle of the day, and I went unannounced. She hates that, by the way."
Cassidy huffed. "Oh no. Her own son didn't announce he was coming? The horror."
I forced a smile and nodded. "Mom hates surprises." Or being caught without her makeup on.
"I love surprises—except for," she thumbed over her shoulder, "that damn cash in there. That's some bullshit I could do without." She shuddered.
"My mother doesn't hate surprises. She hates losing control."
"Okay, well, that I can relate to. So, you land on her doorstep, and …" She twirled her hand, hurrying me up.
"I found Mom sitting on the terrace with a glass of wine." I paused, remembering the confusion on her face when I strode into her view. She’d obviously forgotten I still had a key. "Mom always drinks alone in the afternoon. Like it’s sophisticated instead of a problem."
Cassidy's mouth tightened, and I wondered if she understood that kind of illusion. The kind that looked polished from a distance and rotten up close.