It's Not Love, It's Business (Young In Love Book 2) by Elle Wright

Author:Elle Wright [Wright, Elle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elle Writes Books LLC
Published: 2021-08-22T18:30:00+00:00

Preston

My thumb hovered over the send button. I’d drafted the email to Parker Wells Jr. a few days ago, requesting a meeting to discuss what I’d learned. After several edits, I still wasn’t ready to send. The uncertainty kept me from opening the door to the possibility that Parker Wells Sr. was my biological father.

The DNA test was the easy part—only two possible outcomes. Yes, he was my father. Or no, my mother was just a liar. If he wasn’t, my life would go back to normal. But if he was… What effect will a bombshell like this have on my life? No matter what people said, the truth didn’t always set someone free. Sometimes the truth was just another form of prison, another life sentence of pain and misery.

“What are you doing here?”

Closing my email app, I set my phone down and looked at my mother. When I’d arrived early this morning, intent on hashing this out, she’d been asleep. Surprisingly, the house was clean. There was no evidence of hard partying, no empty liquor bottles. It reminded me of the times she’d come home from rehab with a “new lease on life,” determined to get back on track. Those good times had never lasted, but they were some of my favorite memories of her.

“You’re not hungover,” I said. “You haven’t been drinking.”

“No, I haven’t,” she admitted, flinging her legs off the side of the bed and lighting up a cigarette. “I’m taking a break.”

I lifted a brow. “Forever?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Nunya.”

Mom had tried to convince me I should be grateful that I had the fun mother. She often said that other kids had strict parents, mothers who monitored their every move and fathers who’d beat them. She’d even encouraged me to call her by her first name because she wanted to be my friend. Then, she’d get angry when I insisted on calling her Ma. I wanted someone to care about my homework and my grades. I wanted a mother who’d go to parent-teacher conferences—sober—and sports tournaments. I needed someone who concerned herself with my wellbeing, my failures, my successes. I just needed her to be my mother.

I stood and paced the floor slowly. The faint creek of the wood beneath my feet was the only sound as I pondered my approach. I felt her eyes on me, watching me. Waiting. Finally, I turned to her. “You said something to me the last time I was here.”

She met my gaze unflinchingly. “I told you your father wasn’t your father.”

I studied her face, the hard line of her mouth and her frosty glare. Times like this, I wondered if she’d ever loved me, because she damn sure didn’t act like she even liked me. “Is it true? Was Hayes my father?”

“Did he raise you?” she asked.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Did he take you to baseball practice, teach you how to ride a bike?”

I clenched my teeth, massaging the back of my neck. She ticked off

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