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The moment he’s gone, I collapse on top of the bed and close my eyes, wrapping my arms around my middle. I’m shaking, my mind running a million miles a minute and I don’t know what to do. Should I chase after him? Should I leave? My mind replays his words over and over again.

Guess I’ll just have to prove it to you in a more obvious way then.

What does that mean? It almost sounds positive but am I too hopeful? Or was it an insult? If he didn’t want me here, he would’ve had no problem escorting me out of the house himself. Yet he didn’t.

Maybe there is hope for us.

Chapter Forty-Nine

SINCLAIR

Iwake up to the sound of birds chirping outside and when I open my eyes to stare at the gigantic glittering chandelier hanging above me, I wonder if I’ve landed in the middle of a fairytale.

But no. My life is anything but a fairytale at the moment thanks to me upsetting the man I’m falling in love with. My stupid words sent him out of the room like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. He probably hates me.

Oh God, I hope he didn’t murder his sister like he said he would.

I practically fall out of the bed, I’m trying to get out of it so quickly. I toss on some clothes, brush my hair and teeth and then make my way downstairs, coming to a stop at the base of the stairs when I realize I don’t know where to go.

Luckily, I follow the scent of bacon and baked goods until I find a massive dining room where only Whit Lancaster is sitting at the table, sipping from a cup of coffee while he looks over his iPad. He’s wearing glasses and I wonder for a moment if August will need glasses someday. And how devastatingly handsome his father is—August looks just like him. Meaning Iknow how August will look when he’s older and he’s going to be such a DILF.

Ugh, that I even had that thought about his freaking dad is wrong, I’m sure.

The elder Lancaster lifts his gaze as if he sensed my presence, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table. “Good morning, Sinclair.”

“Good morning.” I glance around the cavernous room, noticing the covered dishes on the sideboard along with a platter of fresh fruit and a basket with what looks like croissants. My stomach growls at the sight of it all. “Where is everyone?”

“Iris and her mother took the baby to do a little shopping downtown. Brooks is most likely still sleeping and I don’t know where August is. I assume you were with him last night.” The little smile on Whit Lancaster’s face is faintly teasing and I wish I didn’t feel so fragile.

I’m this close to telling him the truth—that I have no idea where his son is and I’m worried our relationship is over—but I keep my mouth shut.

“Are you hungry? Breakfast is still available if you want it.” He waves a hand toward the sideboard and I dash over to it immediately, serving myself fresh fruit, a croissant and a pile of scrambled eggs with a couple of pieces of bacon. Do they really serve up food like this every day here? If so, a girl could get used to this sort of treatment.

“Thank you,” I tell him once I’m seated and about to dig in. After being so upset last night and barely getting any sleep, I’m surprised I’m so hungry.

“You’re welcome.” I can feel his eyes on me as I eat and I grow self-conscious. Lifting my head, I find that he is most definitely watching me and he doesn’t even look embarrassed getting caught.

“How are you?”

“I should ask how you’re doing.” Whit tilts his head to the side, his gaze narrowing. “You seem…unsettled.”

I practically choke on a wad of croissant and I swallow it down, reaching for the glass of orange juice I poured myself and gulping from it.

“Perhaps I’m the one who leaves you unsettled.” He leans back in his chair, his gaze still on me. “If that’s so, please let me apologize. I’m just curious.”

“It’s not you,” I manage to say, clearing my throat. “Last night was…rough.”

“Please tell me you didn’t argue with August.”

“He was upset with me,” I admit. “I might’ve said some things that I shouldn’t have and he stormed out of my room.”

“Ahh.”

That’s all he says.Ahh.The quiet in the room becomes oppressive and I drop my head, focusing on finishing my breakfast so I can get out of this room and away from this intimidating man. It’s only when I’m finishing up the last of my eggs that he finally speaks.

“My son is very much like…me. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Whit says.

I lift my head to find him still leaning back in his chair, his body language nonchalant. As if he hadn’t a care in the world. And I suppose he doesn’t. This problem isn’t his. It’s ours and I feel like what August and I have is messy. Hopeless.