Page 170 of Soul Mates: Hercules Valentine and I

I rub my eyes and view the time on the right top corner of my screen. It’s going on nine o’clock. I’ve never taken this long to find what I’m looking for once I go knocking around someone’s sphere, but I’ve come up short.

Well, it’s more than that. Marigold is empty. In a sense, beyond 2025, she’s nonexistent. I’ve been at it nonstop, trying to find concrete evidence that Marigold Grace Valentine was born at the University of Chicago Medical Center in 1996. That particular hospital uploaded all of their medical files into their mainframe ranging from 1987 until today, 2065.

Nothing.

I searched the Social Security Office backup archives. Not many hackers can break into that one. I’ve done it on many occasions—mainly to verify identities for Max. I also put Lark Davenport into their archives. Afterward, I prayed no one performed an A-level security background check on her. If they had, then they would’ve noticed her number was out of sequence and incongruent with her date of birth. I haven’t expunged the identity. I liked that Hercules had never fired me. Lark Davenport was my lingering connection to him—until today. That’s why, before I log out, I delete Lark Davenport from the system.

My cell phone rings, causing me to jump in my seat. I check the time again then pick up my device to see who’s calling.

“Oh,” I say with a lift of my eyebrows. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Your dad and I are in town tonight. We’ll be sitting down for dinner soon. Why don’t you join us?”

I stop myself from yawning. In New York City, people have early mornings and late nights. Normally, I’m in bed a little after twelve. If I’m out with Lake, Eden, or Jillian, I might not climb into bed until the wee hours of the morning. But today has been quite eventful.

But it’s been far too long since I’ve seen my parents. We smoothed things over on a conference call a few weeks ago, but a phone call is nothing like sitting at the table with them and sharing a meal. Plus, I’m hungry again. I was just going to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but now I can have a meal prepared by a five-star chef.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll call an Uber.”

“Greg will pick you up. He’ll call when he’s in front of your building.”

As soon as we hang up, Greg calls.

Humph. That was fast.

The only viewsthat rival those from Hercules’s penthouse are those from my parents’ penthouse. I’ve never cared to notice them until now. Mari, one of the house staff, takes my coat after we hug.

“You look so beautiful, Paisley. Look at you—you’re a woman now.” Her eyes are glossy and coated with tears as she comes in for another hug.

“Thanks, Mari.” I kiss her on the cheek. She always smells like strawberries. I think it’s her shampoo. And not only is her scent welcoming, but it reminds me of her bringing me cookies, hot chocolate, and all kinds of tasty snacks while my parents were away and I was glued to my computer screen, trying to come up with the next great piece of software. She would remind me as often as needed that I needed to go to the kitchen and eat dinner. Even when I got snippy with her about it, she would maintain her pleasant yet stern demeanor and say something like, “Well, if you want me to go away, then get to the table and eat. Staff can’t call it a night until you’ve had dinner.”

She always knew what to say to make me get off my duff and think about someone other than myself. I love Mari.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks, smiling coyly.

My chuckle comes out as light as a feather. I’m proud of myself for not sounding as nervous as her question makes me feel.Why do I feel so close to Hercules? He’s engaged,I’m forced to remind myself yet again. Yes, his engagement is fake, but still, he’s engaged.

“Not yet,” I say, feeling relieved that my family will never guilt me into marrying someone I don’t love. “But how are Pita and Lem?”

As we walk to the dining room, she says her daughter, Pita, has just moved to Chicago. Her husband, her college sweetheart, landed a new position there as an industrial engineer. Pita still works remotely, keeping my mom, dad, and Max’s travel calendars. And she’s pregnant with her first child. Lem, Mari’s son, has just been appointed as a circuit judge for the US Court of Appeals.

“Wow, that’s major,” I say as we arrive at the broad opening of the dining room, where a large farm-style table is set before an expansive view of New York that runs all the way past Battery Park.

As soon as my parents see me, they’re on their feet. We hug. They tell me how well I look. I tell them the same. Then we sit down to share a meal together.

20 Minutes Later

I’ve become a little suspicious of them tonight. The clues are easy to pick up. First is the menu—pepper-and-herb-crusted prime rib with melt-in-your-mouth potatoes and roasted carrots. This is the meal my mom used to let me eat as a reward. Second is the conversation—they haven’t asked me once what I’ve been working on. That’s always the first question out of their mouths. Even during our last conversation, they asked what I was working on. And they didn’t wait until we were this far into our conversation to ask. And finally, my dad keeps watching me with his eyes slightly narrowed while he’s delicately stroking his perfectly square chin. He’s thinking, formulating his plan of attack.What do they want?

“So…” Heartly says, eyes wide, as whatever she has to say next is already thrilling her. “I heard you’re having dinner with Ronald Ashton on Friday.”

I feel my jaw drop. I don’t want it to do that, but it’s too late to hold it in place. Then saliva goes down my windpipe, and suddenly, I’m coughing my head off.

“Drink your water,” my dad says, always one to find solutions for immediate problems.

I cough some more to clear my throat then raise the goblet to my lips to drink.Why are they asking about Ronald Ashton?

Secretly, I’m praying that Xander and Heartly find another topic of conversation, but they’re watching me, waiting for me to get myself together.