Page 71 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
Chapter 25
“There’s something I want to tell you,” Lucas says.
When my heart jumps into my throat at his words, I clamp down furiously on the beating monster. It doesn’t help that the plane’s about to land. Back to my New York City reality after our trip to what seems like pretend-land. He stares at me, waiting for a signal that he should unload whatever ominous shit he has. It couldn’t be bigger than telling me he’s not a poor Uber-driving grad student, that he’s really the heir to the Fierro family race car empire. That had been a shock and I’m still sorting out whether it’s a good one or a bad one.
Determined to keep myself contained, not let myself go like a runaway train to unknown parts, to some unknown Melissa, I quip. When in doubt, I always quip.
“Not another revelation about your identity? You’re not going to tell me you dressed up in your mother’s clothes as a boy or something, are you?
I have the satisfaction of watching him almost spit out his drink, watching his serious face falter, giving way to the dimple that lurked, the one that I hadn’t seen nearly enough of the last few days.
“Nothing so entertaining as that,” he says. I’m disappointed when his dimple disappears.
He returns to his serious, but not-quite-as-sober look. He takes a breath as if he’s diving into the deep end of the pool, and I brace myself for the frigid water.
“While I was working at our company offices, I took advantage of our resources and contacted our security firm.” He pauses long enough for me to imagine all kinds of horrible security-related scenarios, but I can’t really make sense of what he’s saying.
Lucas leans in and goes on in his judge-like demeanor and I try not to feel like the criminal or, worse yet, the victim.
“I asked them if they could find your birth parents.”
He stops and looks at me. My mind is still processing his words as if it’s running on a treadmill, not getting anywhere.
“What?” I feel stupid, but I know it’s partly from sleep deprivation. Or I hope so.
“You said you wanted to find them, that you’d once tried. I’m going to help you find your birth father and mother. I want to help you get past your past. I think if you find them and meet them and put the mystery of who they are to rest, meet the real people, the specter that you’ve created in your imagination will disappear.”
“I’m not seeing any ghosts.” I purposely choose to take his words literally. He’s cut too close to the bone. My heart palpitates with excitement in spite of my knee-jerk protest.
“Do you think you can? Find them?” I sit forward and then force myself to sit back, to curb my unwise enthusiasm. But damn it, he smiles, showing me his dimple again. And I can hardly be expected to resist that, can I?
“Yes. Our security firm couldn’t do it from Italy, but they recommended a good investigation firm based in New York.” He slips a card from his pocket and shows it to me. It’s a plain white card with a name and a phone number embossed in plain black raised lettering. Very mysterious and sophisticated.
“What do we need to do?”
“I called and made an appointment for us to talk to them.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I have to work tomorrow.”
“I made the appointment for 7 p.m.”
“I suppose private investigators are used to working off-hours, aren’t they?” My heart gives a lurch of excitement and I’m not sure if it’s the excitement of meeting with a real-life private investigator or if it’s the prospect of finding my birth parents. The prospect of maybe meeting them, talking to them, finding out who they really are spins my gut so that it feels like a ball of cotton candy. Sickeningly sweet at the seduction of that long-held dream coming true.
But this is no dream. Lucas is for real. He is giving me the chance to pull the curtain back from the great and powerful Oz of my imagination. Lucas was right about me.I do need to meet my birth parents, find out about them, to put my anxiety to rest.
“If I had to guess—and it appears that I do since you’re not sharing,” he says, “I’d say you’re pleased with the plan.”
“Yes. I am.” I let go of my smile, let it shine. Then I lean forward and put my arms around his shoulders as best I can, given the separation of our damn first-class seats with the console between us.
“How pleased?” he says in that predator’s purr that sends a trill of something naughty through me. But then the flight attendant comes on the speaker to warn us that we’re about to land and I come back to earth. Literally and figuratively.
“Pleased enough to give you a raincheck.” I sit back in my seat.
He reaches over and takes my chin in his hand.
