Chloé fell silent, a wave of guilt sweeping over her, because she was pretty sure her dad would have a different opinion if he knew what kind of fun she’d ended up having.
“So?” He looked down at her, a frown creasing his brow. “Did you have fun?”
“We did. But not half as much fun as when I’m with you.”
“Aw.” He bopped her on the nose, the way he had since she was a little girl. “Aren’t you sweet.”
“As candy,” Chloé said, the same as always.
He laughed merrily, his exuberance something that was difficult to deny. As they rounded the corner to head back to the kitchen, one of the stainless-steel doors pushed open and her père called out, “Princesse? Is Chloé here yet? It’s coming up to—”
“Right here.” She waved and flashed her most winning smile—
“You’re late.”
—which clearly needed more practice.
She rushed forward, holding the door for her père as he continued to whisk whatever was in the bowl he held.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s a busy night, but—”
“Busy?” His eyes widened. “It’s Saturday night. We have a full house from open to close, and you’re just now strolling in? Qu’est-ce que je vais faire de toi?”
Chloé grimaced and glanced over her shoulder at her dad, who merely shrugged. His message was clear: You’re on your own, kid.
“Je suis désolée, vraiment—”
“Sorry is not good enough.” Her père looked around the kitchen at everyone who’d stopped to see what utensil he planned to use to end her life. Then he stormed over to the pantry door and gestured for her to get inside.
She rushed by, and he followed her in, shutting the door behind them.
“If you were anyone else right now, I would be docking your pay.” He crossed his arms, and with the serious expression on his handsome face, she almost didn’t recognize him.
Of her three fathers, her père was usually the most even-tempered—which was ironic, since Julien Thornton-Priestley had been dubbed “the Prick” on a long-ago cooking reality show.
Right now, though, he reminded her more of her papa. He was usually the one who came down on her the hardest.
Chloé looked at her feet, disappointment flooding her as she tried to think up a good excuse as to why she was so late. But really, there wasn’t one, and he was right—if she was anyone other than his daughter, she’d be in a lot more trouble right now.
She chewed on her lower lip, thinking over her next words carefully. When she finally raised her eyes, she was shocked to see a warm smile stretched across her père’s lips.
“Oh, mon ange.” He chuckled. “You should see your face right now.”
Wait, what the hell is going on? “I…I don’t understand.”
He started laughing even harder. “Non?”
Chloé shook her head, looking at the shelves of food surrounding her, and wondered if she’d fallen into some kind of weird parallel universe. Then the pantry door was pulled open behind her.
“Happy birthday!”
She whirled around to see Justin, their dad, and the rest of the staff gathered in the kitchen—and also a tall, serious-faced man, with a striking silver beard and hair, and slate-grey eyes the same color as hers, balancing a three-tiered cake.
“Happy birthday, angel,” her papa said as he passed the cake off to her brother and pulled her into a fierce hug. “A little dramatic there, weren’t you, Julien?”
“Oh, I don’t know, mon amour. I thought I did pretty good.”
As the fact that she wasn’t in trouble—and her fathers weren’t mad at her—set in, she pulled away from her papa and glared at all of them.
“Are you serious right now? I just about had a heart attack thinking I was in trouble.”
“In all fairness, mon ange”—her père’s kind eyes smiled at her—“you are late for your shift.”
“And you’re all horrible,” she said, poking her tongue out for added emphasis.
“That’s a bad habit,” her papa said, and aimed an accusatory look at the one she’d learned it from.
Her dad bristled and angled his pointy chin high, living up to that royal title of his. “She has plenty of yours too, Joel. Don’t act so high and mighty.”
“No, that’s your job.” Her papa winked at him as they all walked back into the kitchen. “But I suppose he’s right. Either way, I think you still turned out pretty good.”
Chloé’s mouth fell open. “Pretty good?”
“If I claim anything more, that would make me sound arrogant.”
Her père snorted. “And that has stopped you when?”
As the rest of the staff got back to work, their family headed out of the kitchen and into the quieter, more private lounge area, where Justin set the cake down on one of the tables and lit the candles.
Her papa hugged her into his side and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“We know you’re getting older and prefer to do things on your own now, but did you really think we’d let you get away without celebrating your birthday with us?”
“Well, no,” she said as she moved to stand behind the sparklers. “But I didn’t want any kind of party this year, just, um…dinner with Shay.”
Justin scoffed. “That’s totally unlike you, but that’s why you’re just getting a cake.”
Chloé blew out the candles and plastered on a smile, waiting to see if the ground would open up and swallow her whole for the lie, as her family stood across from her smiling like she was their perfect little angel.
Yep, there went that niggling sense of guilt at what she’d just wished for because, well, they didn’t know that the tree at the back of the house was now tall enough that she could reach it from her bedroom window. Or that she’d been climbing down it for the last few years whenever she wanted to leave the house.
They also didn’t know that she planned to sneak out later that night so she could knock on the front door of an adults-only club.
No, they didn’t know any of that, because she was their perfect little angel.
But sometimes, even angels fall.
“I WAS WONDERING if I’d find you here.” Zayne leaned up against the doorframe of their office and took in the man sitting behind the desk at the far end of the room.
In a white dress shirt with the top couple buttons left open, Ethan had an air of relaxation about him that was deceiving, because the half-empty bottle of whiskey that sat off to the side of the desk said that he was feeling last night’s frustration just as much as Zayne was.
Usually, a night at the club together would’ve signaled a satisfying ending for the both of them. But after the unexpected roadblock of a white band wrapped around the wrist of the only person who’d caught their attention, the rest of the night had fizzled out fast.
“Where else would I be?” Ethan finally answered, glancing over the top of his computer.
Zayne pushed off the door and strolled into the room. He took a seat on the long leather couch pushed up against the wall and looked up at the three screens directly opposite him monitoring the club, then to where his man sat.