The Lost Daughter

CHAPTER FOUR.

When I'm sure Weston isn't going to disappear in front of me, I ease back a little, but grab onto his hand and link my fingers with his instead—unwilling to let go of him fully.

He squeezes my hand and I let out a little sigh of relief he's okay with letting me cling to him like a child.

My father, well—our father, I remind myself—walks over then.

"I have some work to do but I'll see you in the morning, will you be okay? Wes can show you to your room." He asks me.

I glance back at Weston, trying to gauge if he's willing to stay with me a while because I'm not ready for him to leave yet, but I don't know if maybe he has plans and I'm keeping him from something. He does have an entire life I don't know about and that I haven't been a part of. That thought pains me.

His jaw is clenched as he stares back at his father, but he turns to look back at me and his face softens again. And like he can read all the thoughts in my head, he nods. "Of course, Will." He says quietly. I can't help but smile a bit at the nickname.

"I'll let you two have some time together, then." He leans in to hug me tightly, or as much as he can while I'm holding onto Weston like a vise with one hand. "Goodnight baby, I'm so glad you're home."

"Me too." I whisper back, and I mean it. I don't care about the money, or the house, or the plane or anything else. I care about this. I care about family.

He nods his head once at Weston, about to turn and leave but then he pauses. "Is Jackson here?" He asks my brother.

My eyebrows furrow in confusion as Weston answers, "For the last few days, yeah." I don't remember that name from what my father told me.

He nods absently like this was what he expected. "Night, guys." He says again before walking off down a hall behind the right staircase.

"Night." I mumble as I watch him leave, and then turn back towards Weston.

He's staring in the direction our father left with a hard, unreadable expression, then he blinks and it's gone. He slides his eyes back to me and just like that his expression is warmer, the side of his mouth turning up in what I would call a smirk if his face didn't look so genuine.

"Are you hungry?" He questions in a voice louder than I've heard it so far. I notice his voice is deep, rough. I marvel over every new discovery.

I realize then I am hungry. It's been such a long day of up and downs, I haven't had time to think about it until it's been pointed out to me, like when I slept on the plane. I don't even remember the last time I ate, maybe yesterday?

God. I've been taking care of myself and my mother for years and then I spend twelve hours in the company of other people who care about my needs and it's like I suddenly forget how to take care of myself.

"Starving." I tell him, smiling back at him.

He leans down to pick up my poor bag I've dropped a thousand times today, passing it to me. I pull it back up over my shoulder as he tugs gently on my hand to start leading me out of the entryway.

He takes me to the left, opposite of the direction our father went, and we enter an open area that I don't immediately recognize as a kitchen because of the sheer size of it.

The entire thing must be at least three times the size of the motel room I lived in up until a few hours ago. Despite its expansiveness, it's inviting in a way. More so than the impressive marble of the foyer, not nearly as imposing. It's a lot of warm colors—tans and light brows mostly, with intricately carved detailing. It's beautiful, honestly.