Page 13 of My Ex’s Dad (Scandalous Billionaires #1)

Chapter six

Warrick

A malphia follows me out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the garage.

It’s impressive, with all the features you’d expect of a house in this price margin.

There are three bays, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but there’s a car lift on the far end that stacks cars one on top of the other, so they take up less room.

I have two not-so-daily cars on the far end and my black sedan in the middle bay.

Across town, I have a few more cars in storage.

My one guilty pleasure is cars. Imports or domestic, fast or slow, antique or new, I have quite a collection.

The only thing that stops me from owning too many is that I’m fussy.

I’ve never bought anything brand new. I like the car to have a character or a story.

And when I say car, I actually just mean vehicle .

I own a few pretty incredible trucks, one amazing adventure van, and a few ancient off-roading vehicles.

My latest purchase was one of those work vans that was converted to look like a giant green monster, complete with the shag. Inside and out.

But we’re not here to look at vehicles or talk about them.

The other side of the garage is where I have my work area set up. The whole bay pretty much consists of metal tables that have adjustable height, another table along the far wall with a massive bank of curved monitors where I do my programming, and beyond that, a whole row of standup tool chests.

My current project, the robot dog, is lying in pieces on the far table, and I do mean pieces. I know it’s going to be a dog, but what it is at this point is anyone’s best guess.

Amalphia covers her mouth with her hand, stifling a gasp.

“Oh my goshhhhh!” She rushes across the garage, grasps the edge of the table, and eagerly surveys everything.

“This is so incredible! It’s like a real factory.

Or a garage. A factage? You could be a mad scientist, bringing robot dogs to life to take over the world. ”

She’s so adorable that I find it impossible not to smile as I walk over.

The concrete floors are heated, but they’re not on at this time of year.

The only thing running is the AC, which is whisper quiet, cooling the garage to the perfect temperature.

I have an amazing stereo system in here, but I don’t turn it on.

“Nah,” I respond, running my index finger over the dog’s unassembled front leg. “My dogs are like regular dogs. Sweet. Charming. They have no designs on running society in any way.”

Her hands hover anxiously just above the table. “Can I touch it?”

“Absolutely. Touch anything you like. It’s not delicate.”

“I disagree. Look at all those pieces and wires! Those screws there are so tiny! Are you going to make it look like it has real fur?”

Her delight in a project that’s been solely mine up until this point is like a cup of hot tea on a cold night.

No, that’s too token. It’s like doing the perfect installation of a state-of-the-art AC and having it do its job exactly as it’s supposed to.

Most people won’t get excited about that, but most people don’t deal with refrigeration on a daily basis.

Not that I’m out there in the field very often, but I do know how to install, uninstall, and troubleshoot every single one of the company’s products.

Amalphia turns, scrunching up her nose. “Did you guys rename your company?”

It’s uncanny how she can just read my mind. “We did. It used to have our name on it, but Beanbottom doesn’t have such a nice ring. My mom came up with something different. She thought it was brilliant.”

“I think it’s funny too. Witty. But…” Her eyes practically cross. “I don’t know if I like your parents all that much.”

She’s talking about what I told her in the kitchen when I lost my mind and just blurted it all out.

I guess I just figured it was only fair that she knew. She should know the history between myself and Candice so she has some idea where Reginald fits into all of it. I could have told her the same version I’ve given others the few times I’ve been asked.

I could have said nothing.

Instead, I gave her the honest truth. A truth I haven’t told anyone since the night I went to my parents when I was sixteen, confused, scared, and heartbroken.

They didn’t believe me. It was one of those situations they liked to term delicate.

I understand why they believed what Candice was saying and not me.

I understood then, and I definitely understand it as an adult.

The thing is, even after all the money they’ve paid out to her, and then later, the money I paid, they still don’t believe Reginald isn’t my son.

They have never requested a paternity test. They barely listened to me that night.

They were already too busy calculating damage control.

To them, it doesn’t matter whether Reg is or isn’t.

It doesn’t prove that I didn’t do what Candice said I did.

It’s a terrible thing, and even telling the truth paints me in a bad light.

I’ve heard people who were innocent and thrown in jail anyway say it doesn’t matter if you actually committed the crime.

What matters is being accused in the first place.

You’re not really innocent until proven guilty.

I was always going to be guilty with no chance of redemption.

I try to see it the way my parents did. Would I have believed me?

We never had a good relationship. They were never much more than distant.

They really didn’t even know me. But still, it’s a sliver under my skin that I’ve never been able to pick out, and all it’s done is fester.

I haven’t been buying Candice’s silence. I’ve been trying to ensure Reg is okay. That he wanted for nothing, had a great education, and turned out to be a good person.

Ever since the thuggery incident, I hate the feeling I’ve had that I’ve failed in that respect as well.

I realize it’s been quiet here for too long.

I’m awkward now, trying to figure out if Amalphia is calculating where my story has plot holes and flaws.

But why would she do that if she just said my parents aren’t her favorite people?

I study her carefully, and she studies me back. We’re having a staring contest to end all staring contests, but it doesn’t appear she’s digging loopholes out of my truth. She isn’t actively setting mental traps in her mind that will catch me off guard in the future.

I’d met her twice before, but back in the kitchen, it was sixteen-year-old me standing there, on the verge of having my whole life and future crumble down around me for something I had never done and would never do, but instead of judgment and condemnation, all I found was empathy.

Ever since that night, I haven’t been very good at doing emotional shit. But the soft way Amalphia is looking at me, with her superpower X-ray vision eyes that turn into suction cups that can suck out any and all emotions, makes my chest respond with a weird little shiver and a pull toward her.

“For the record, it’s okay to be pissed. I would be too. I don’t care who you are. Man or woman.”

“I just…I wish I could put it behind me somehow. I’d say I wish I could be normal, but normal is such a relative term. What’s normal, really? Do you know anybody in this world, rich, poor, or in between, who is just meh?”

“Actually, tons of people I know are just meh. So much meh. But I know what you’re saying.

” She crosses her arms. “I think you’re a remarkable man.

I wouldn’t have been so forgiving. That scenario would have frustrated me until I had a nervous breakdown.

I don’t like feeling helpless or powerless.

I’ve been in that situation exactly once, and it wasn’t great.

It was you who saved me. But I get why you almost didn’t show up.

In your office, I mean, when you thought it was an act. ”

“I’m not remarkable,” I snort. “I’m just another spoiled rich guy who was given everything. Every opportunity. I haven’t done enough. I’ve barely done anything at all.”

She crosses her arms and taps her foot. I’m not sure what that means, but is foot-tapping ever a good thing? “That might be as relative as normal.” She indicates the dog. “I wouldn’t call that nothing. I’d call it pretty freaking cool.”

“It’s just a few steps above high school level science fair projects.”

“Oh my freaking god.” She can’t hold in her laughter. It bursts out of her, but it’s not mean. Her eyes are all lit up and sparkly. “I don’t know what kind of school you went to, but the rest of us aren’t tech geniuses. In high school, I was making freaking volcanos and potato clocks.”

“Very noble projects.”

“Which you were probably doing in kindergarten. If you can build something like this, you can build anything.”

“It’s not that hard, really. For me, at any rate. The software on the computer just comes down to coding and programming—”

“They happen to be impossible,” she interrupts.

“Putting the parts together is a matter of mechanics.”

“Even if I went to college for eighty years, that would be above my pay grade.”

“Alright,” I cede. I’m not going to win this argument. If she’s trying to point out that maybe I’m above average when it comes to computers, engineering, and mechanics, then that’s fair. I’m good at it. It’s why I pursued it as a degree. It’s why I’ve made it my hobby.

“I think this robot dog is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. And I like that it’s a dog and not a person or something that’s obviously supposed to be a robot. Dogs are sweet. I love Booty Sue so much.”

“I’ve always wanted a dog.” My face is doing something funky.