Baby, Be My Last (The Fairfields Book 3) Read online

  BABY, BE MY LAST

  THE FAIRFIELDS | BOOK THREE

  PIPER LENNOX

  Copyright © 2018 by Piper Lennox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For my Arrow

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Also by Piper Lennox

  Stay in the Loop

  About the Author

  1

  Here’s what I know about the Fairfields.

  They’re the oldest money in our state. Maybe not the richest anymore; Timothy, Sr., didn’t exactly cotton to new technology, and trained his son to do the same. That’s probably why Monroe Street Station is one of the last family-owned train stations in America. Old Tim just can’t let the dinosaur die.

  In addition to the train station, they own the famous Acre Hotel. Once again, it’s not the finest establishment you’ll find—just that combination of grand and old you can’t find anywhere else. Movie stars stay there in secret rooms. Or so I’ve been told.

  Fairfield Industries is the parent company of twenty others, including my employer, Everyoung Ice Cream. It sounds like a cute old lady started it in her kitchen, right?

  She didn’t. No old lady was involved at all. Everyoung is the brainchild of ad execs in the 1950s, including that wholesome logo that looks like something off a homemade jam label.

  I know the Fairfields live at the Fairfield estate, in the city right next to my hometown. Well, maybe not right next to it—an hour. A little less, if you take the back roads and don’t hit any deer.

  I know Caitlin-Anne Fairfield is a spoiled, entitled bitch. Her mom is that classic, WASP-y Old Virginian type. The kind of woman who says “bless your heart” before she tears down your neighborhood, but puts up a youth center in its place.

  I know Timothy Fairfield, Jr., is my father.

  The Fairfields are a legacy. If you have their blood anywhere in you, it’ll open doors you didn’t even know existed. Not as incredible as being a Kennedy, but better than being no one.

  Growing up, I wanted to learn everything I could about the Fairfields. My ears pricked up for every rumor, every news story. I memorized Tim’s face in business magazines.

  But that was it. I knew his face, I knew the rumors. I knew a few fuzzy memories I wasn’t even sure were real. But I didn’t know him.

  “He abandoned us,” my mother spat, whenever I dared ask about him. “What more do you need to know?”

  “I just...want to know what he was like.”

  “He abandoned you.” She’d throw down whatever was in her hands. Usually a sponge into the sink, but sometimes a whole basket of laundry onto the floor, if she was feeling dramatic. “That doesn’t tell you what kind of man he was?”

  Once I asked her, if she hated him so much, why she gave me his last name.

  “Baby, listen.” The stench of her hairspray wrapped around me like a boa constrictor as she kneeled in front of me, hands on my shoulders. “I hate the Fairfields much as you do. But you’ve got that blue blood and I’d be a fool not to help you take advantage of it. Being a Fairfield…your life will be so much easier. Trust me.”

  It didn’t make me feel better. I hated our names being different. I hated people asking if I was related to “the” Fairfields. If I said no, they ignored me like I’d suddenly turned into dust, right at their feet. If I said yes, they treated me like a liar: Fairfields didn’t live in the sticks.

  When I turned fourteen, I started going by McIntyre, Mom’s maiden. Or I tried to, anyway.

  My first job application was to the new sports equipment store in Hillford. It was a long bike ride, but I was sick of Filigree—tired of flat, brown farmland and everyone talking about corn and cows. Hillford was tiny, but at least it had a pulse.

  They turned me down.

  Then I tried something. Printed out a new application.

  Wrote “Fairfield” in the box for my last name.

  I got the job that same day, the minute I brought in my application to the hiring manager and shook his hand.

  “Fairfield?” He looked from the application to me like comparing a police artist sketch to the real deal. “That family that owns the Acre Hotel?”

  “Yes, sir.” I straightened my shoulders and reminded myself to be confident; that’s what the internet said was key to getting jobs. “Timothy Fairfield is my father.”

  The guy’s laugh was coated in phlegm. “Your daddy’s Tim Fairfield. Okay.” He studied me a minute. “Why don’t you live in the city with him, then? In that great big mansion he’s got?”

  I took a breath. “He abandoned me.”

  Little by little, his face softened, or as much as a face tanned in sixty southern summers could. “That so.”

  My throat was dry. I nodded.

  “Well, that’s a shame.” His desk creaked like it might break when he leaned against it, my application crinkling as he folded his arms. “You know, I’ve heard rumors Tim had kids he kept secret. I suppose it’s not anything you’d want to lie about.”

  Vehemently, I shook my head.

  “Will say one thing for those Fairfields,” he added. “They work hard, what I can tell. You fit that category?”

  “Yes—yes, I work really hard, sir. I can come in every day after school. I mean, it takes me a while, because I’m on my bike, but—”

  “Five to eight on weeknights, noon to eight on Saturdays. We close Sundays.” Smoothly, his hand slid into the air between us. “Eight an hour.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Eight an hour, twenty-three hours a week: for a kid with damn near nothing, it sounded like a goldmine.

  I shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

  “Can’t believe I’ve got a Fairfield working for me,” he chuckled. He was still laughing about it, in fact, when I left his office, my new uniform clutched in my hand.

  * * *

  “And you have proof you’re a Fairfield?”

  I stare at the news reporter who called me this morning. Amy...something. No: Amelia. Or was it Ann?

  News travels fast in the city, too, apparently: I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, the dirt of Hillford still stuck to my shoes, and strangers already know my business.

  “What, like a DNA test?”

  “Sure. Or a birth certificate.”

  “Oh, I have that.” I pull the copy from my pocket and smooth it on the table of the co
ffee shop. “I’ve got a photo of us together too, from when I was…three, I think?”

  “This is good.” She sips her coffee, something elaborate with soy milk, while I sip my black breakfast blend. Through the window behind her, I can see her news van. The camera guy’s smoking a cigarette and blasting talk radio. “Between you and me, the station hasn’t had a good scandal in years. Not a local one, anyway.”

  “Scandal?”

  “The Fairfields are kind of a legend, in our city. Maybe the entire state. Seems like everyone’s at least heard of them.”

  Suddenly, this feels like a mistake. Besides the fact this woman clearly cares more about sensationalizing my story than helping my case, there’s also the fact that, legally, I’m not sure I should be sharing details about any of this without my lawyer.

  By answering her call, I did exactly what Graham warned me not to do. I got desperate.

  “You know…I, uh, I just remembered, I’m running late for something. But I’ll be in touch.” I thank her for the coffee she insisted on buying me, then push my way out of there before she can protest.

  Getting the news involved was never my intention. I just want something to make him answer me. That’s honestly the worst reaction Timothy Fairfield can give me: nothing.

  For the twentieth time since I started this, I wish I hadn’t started it.

  The city feels like a puzzle I have to assemble without looking at the box. I only know the way to one place: the Acre. Maybe that’s why I keep going there.

  Maybe I just keep hoping I’ll run into him.

  It’s stupid, for a few reasons. One: I’ve already gotten the law involved, tired of his dodged calls and silence. All those returned letters and holiday cards, almost every year from age five to fourteen.

  Two: the guy’s an owner. Owners don’t hang around their businesses all day. He’s probably on a golf course or some Mediterranean cruise right this minute. I bet Graham’s had as much luck reaching him as I did.

  There’s something else, though—another reason I park in the deck, bolt across the street, and slip my way into the Acre Hotel’s lobby for the fifth time since I got to the city.

  Near the back of the lobby, past the tearoom, stands a giant fireplace. It’s sealed off against use, even though it still has leather chairs flanking it, inviting people to sit. Over the mantle hangs a huge oil portrait.

  BOURNE FAIRFIELD: FOUNDER, ACRE HOTEL AND MONROE STREET STATION.

  He looks exactly like me.

  Okay: not exactly like me. He’s much older, with lines around his eyes and mouth, and has a handlebar mustache. But other than that? The resemblance is dead-on.

  A couple laughs from somewhere behind me. They’re getting closer.

  This is stupid, too: the fear of getting recognized. Like someone will see me, look at the painting, and magically know I’m Tim Fairfield’s bastard son. Even if those million-to-one odds played out, why am I scared? Who gives a shit if anyone knows? As soon as the lawsuit goes public, the entire state will know.

  Still, I put my hands in my pockets and stroll along, pretending I’m just some tourist roaming the halls.

  By the time I circle back to the front of the lobby, it’s dusk. I glance through the doors at crowds bustling past, a flood of families in church clothes coming up the steps. They’re probably here to dine at the fancy restaurant to my left, or maybe attend some wedding in the giant ballroom to my right.

  I stand aside when they choose the door in front of me. Like a ghost, I go unnoticed.

  A van pulls up across the street and catches my attention. It’s the reporter I just ditched.

  “Shit,” I whisper, when the doors open. She might not come after me in here, but I get the feeling she will stalk me down the street, follow my car to my motel, and camp outside my room until I give her the scandal she wants.

  I turn and stride to the elevators. So I have to wait it out in the Acre a little longer. It won’t kill me.

  In four visits, I’ve yet to see anything but the first floor. I close my eyes and pick a floor at random.

  God, even the elevator is high-class: thick carpet, mirrored ceiling, and gold-plated doors they must polish every thirty minutes.

  The doors glide open. They must oil the tracks every thirty minutes, too. They don’t even rattle.

  I knew the Acre Hotel was nice. It’s the kind of place people in our town would go to for big anniversary stay-cations, or distant family members’ weddings. They’d come back with pictures of the ballroom like they’d gone sight-seeing in some famous cathedral.

  Even so, I had no idea it was this nice. I pass by an open door, propped with a maid’s cart, and peek inside the room. It’s a full suite. The living room furniture alone looks like it cost more than my car.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, the room isn’t ready yet.”

  I turn.

  The blue eyes blinking up at me crease at the corners when the girl smiles. “We’ll be done soon, I promise. I just have to do the windows. Unless you need to come in for something?”

  She’s halfway reaching to the cart behind me. For whatever reason, I don’t think to slide out of her way to the right or left. I don’t think to tell her this isn’t my room at all.

  Instead, I scoot past it and into the suite. She grabs the window cleaner and thanks me as she follows.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  Her question makes me realize I’m looking around this suite like I’m hunting for Easter Eggs, taking in every detail. Not like I’ve been the occupant for however many days.

  “Oh. No, I was just—just checking how clean it is. You did a great job.”

  “Thank you, Mister....” She waits, spray bottle poised over the glass of the French doors.

  I blink. “Silas.”

  “Mr. Silas. Well, I’ll be out of your hair soon, if you—”

  “No, not Silas. I mean, it is Silas, but that’s my first name.” I take a breath. Whether my nerves are rattled from those eyes that follow me wherever I go, or the fact I’ve been sneaking around this place like a thief since yesterday, I can’t tell. “McIntyre. Silas McIntyre.”

  “Mr. McIntyre,” she nods. I hate that she’s giving me the customer service smile, right now. I want the real deal.

  “Silas,” I correct again. I should have told her I was a Fairfield; if she’s being this nice to a nobody, just any old guest, I can only imagine the red carpet treatment staff reserves for the family.

  Then I remember that news van outside. How much everyone loves a scandal. It’s not a bad thing to be a McIntyre, for a little while longer.

  Except for one important trait: McIntyres always get caught.

  “Hi, sorry! I know you’re busy, I just came in for my laptop.” A woman in an ivory pantsuit rushes into the room, tiptoeing like she’s crossing in front of a camera, until she spots me.

  “Are you with the front desk?”

  The girl looks at me too, her hand mid-swipe on the final pane of glass, while I stammer. Why the hell can’t I think of a lie as easily as I spit out Mom’s last name?

  The woman goes on. “My luggage was supposed to be here from the airport. They promised it would be delivered by five.” Her eyes scan the space around me and, seeing it does not contain her luggage, flicker between my face and the girl’s.

  “This is his room.” She points to me with the window cleaner bottle.

  “No, it’s mine.” The woman points to the corner, where some high heels reside. Great.

  “This isn’t your room?” The girl stares at me, hard, and rests the bottle against her hip.

  Come on, brain. Now would be an excellent time for some world-class bullshit.

  Nope. Nothing.

  I look around again, like I’ll find inspiration in the double crown moldings and textured wallpaper. I probably look like an idiot, which I deserve.

  An idiot. Well. Might as well play to my strengths.

  “Oh. This...isn’t my room.” I force a laugh
and start for the door. “Sorry about that. You know how it is, they all look the same....”

  The second I’m past the girl’s cart, I veer to the elevator. It’s not the smoothest plan; I would’ve greatly preferred one where I didn’t look stupid. But at least I’m free.

  “Hey.”

  The elevator doors are almost closed when I hear the voice. A broom handle jabs into the space and resets them. When they open, the girl is standing on the other side like a knight with a lance.

  “Can I help you find the correct room, sir?”

  “Nope. I’m good.” I reach for the Door Close button, but she steps inside, broom in hand, before they shut.

  “I insist. That’s our job here at the Acre: to help any guest with anything they need.”

  Her voice hits hard on the word “guest.”

  “Really, it’s okay. I just went to the wrong floor, that’s all. I’m on the fourth level.”

  Her eyes slide to the button I just pressed. Lobby.

  “Hungry,” I explain, wondering how much jurisdiction a hotel maid actually has.

  Like grass through frost, her smile emerges. “You’re not a guest.”

  “I am.”

  She passes the broom from hand to hand like swinging a microphone stand. “Okay. Show me your key card.”

  “Lost it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  All right, screw it. This is exhausting.

  “Fine, you caught me. I’m not a guest.”

  The girl leans against the wall and roams her eyes across me. I’m suddenly aware of my terrible posture, the dress pants from my roommate that are just half an inch too short, and the fact my face looks exactly like the guy who turned the Acre from whorehouse to hotel.

  “Is your name really Silas,” she asks, “or is that your alias for sneaking into rooms?”

  “It’s my real name, don’t worry.” I love the relaxed look of her smile, the lowered register of her voice, now that she knows I’m not staying in the hotel. No need for the hospitality act. “And yours is...?”

  She hesitates, then holds out her hand. I take it. “Camille.”

  “Camille,” I repeat. I can’t make myself look away from her eyes, even when she glances away first.