Pursue (Portland Street Kings Book 3) by Evie Harper

Author:Evie Harper [Harper, Evie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Portland Street Kings
Publisher: Evie Harper Author
Published: 2016-07-15T18:30:00+00:00

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Abi sits us down at their mahogany dining table as she makes the tea. The kitchen is a large space filled with mahogany cabinets, silver appliances, and a marble countertop in the center of the kitchen where a blue apron and dish towel sit disheveled. The living room, which we can view from our seats, is similar: Mahogany furniture with two blue sofas which match the cushions we're sitting on. From outside, the house shows its large size, but inside, it seems smaller. It has a homey warmth to it. It’s impeccably clean; however, it’s filled and almost cluttered with a lifetime of accumulating trinkets. Their ivory walls are covered in memories with picture frames; photos of their family as they’ve grown, children, and I think what must be their grandchildren as well. Every inch of what I’ve seen so far shows a loving home, a childhood anyone would be lucky to have.

Abi places a cup of tea in front of me; the movement pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up to thank her, but she’s already gone, moving toward the wall where I was staring.

She removes one frame and places the photo in front of Dom and I. The picture holds what I assume to be Abi’s family as the man resembles Jared and there’s no mistaking the woman is a young Abigail. She points to the children in the picture and my body stills. A tightening in my chest appears as all the air in my lungs disappear. This can’t be. Impossible.

“They’re handsome, aren’t they?” Abi states, misunderstanding my reaction.

Warmth hits my back, and I turn my head quickly realizing it’s Dom. His hand is resting on my back, and he’s leaning in, his eyes asking me if everything is all right. I’m frozen. My mouth unable to move. My mind's unable to fathom how this could ever be possible. Noticing my shock, Dom glances between me and the picture, his forehead wrinkling and his eyes narrowing as he silently tries to figure out what’s going on inside my head.

“As you can tell, they’re identical twins,” Abi informs us, drawing my attention back to the picture. I run my finger over the little boy on the left. “That’s Jacob. He was born first.” Abi points to the other little boy. “Mason came only eight minutes later.”

Narrowing my eyes on the second born, my heart beats brutally, feeling as if it’s about to explode out of my chest. “Mason?” The word slips out of my mouth. I don’t mean to say it aloud, but since my brothers and I found out we weren’t in the foster system—instead we were either stolen from our families or like me, given away—we’ve talked about our names, wondered if they are the names our parents gave to us. Slater and Pacer, the two oldest, and only a year apart, say they don’t ever remember us calling ourselves another name or struggling with new names. Could I be wrong about who I think this little boy is? My memory is skewed.

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