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“I knew he ran those shops,” she says. “I’m not sure how, but you know your family has been connected to our hotels for all my life. I suppose I heard it down the road somewhere. How many are there?”
“A hundred now. He’s turned it into quite the empire.”
“Sounds like it. How well did you know my father, Jax? Just curious. I’m not going anywhere with this.”
“Not well. Hunter was always the heir apparent. My father was his contact until my brother took over. I ran the financial side of the operation, strategic planning, new product development.”
She considers that for a moment that stretches into a few minutes as we eat in comfortable silence, and I suspect her mind is where my mind is at. Our parents knew each other, but we never met, not until now but I take that one step further. Now both our fathers are dead. There’s an ominous quality to that thought.
“Why Brody’s independent streak?” she asks as she finishes off half her slice in an easy change of topic that I suspect isn’t easy at all. Her mind may well be going just as dark as mine, and she wants an escape. “And why New York City? Couldn’t he run his little empire from the castle? Or from Maine at least? And howbig is the castle?” she laughs. “Sorry. That was me throwing you questions left and right.”
“The castle is twenty-thousand square feet, which is why the business offices are run from inside as well. As for Brody, he felt like he would never be king of the castle, as he likes to call it. He wanted to prove he was his own man.”
She studies me a moment and looks away, but not before I see the flash of emotion in her eyes. She relates to Brody. I think she’s really seriously thought about leaving the hotel chain. “How old are your brothers? Or—” She looks at me. “Jax—”
“It’s okay. Brody is thirty-two, and Hunter was thirty-six when he died.”
“So Hunter grabbed the throne, while Brody pushed away. Meanwhile, you were boxing. That’s a big leap from Whiskey. Why? The same reason as Brody? To find your own space?”
“I had some anger issues,” I admit.
She finishes off a slice as I do the same. “You?” she asks. “You seem very much in control, cool and calculated.”
“Which I learned from boxing. You don’t beat an opponent by charging. You beat them with strategy.”
“How old were you and how long did you box? Semi-pro is pretty high up the chain, isn’t it?”
“College. And yes, I had a shot at going pro, but I blew out a knee. I just wasn’t the same after that.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“At the time, yes,” I admit, “but it helped me become who I am today. We grow with every mountain we climbed. Even the ones that we fall down.”
“Even those we fall down,” she says softly, almost to herself. She flicks me a look. “I think falling is better than not climbing.” I want to ask her about that comment, but she doesn’t give me a chance. “You speak of your mother in a very past tense. I wanted to ask about her before, but you didn’t seem to want to talk abouther and if you don’t now, I get it, and we’ll move on, but is she alive?”
“I have no fucking clue. She left when I was thirteen, divorced my father, took a chunk of change, and never looked back.”
“Never?”
“I haven’t spoken to her since she left.”
“Even when your brother died?”
“Not a word, but my father was killed in a skiing accident six months earlier. If anyone knew how to reach her, he would have, but he was gone.”
“Was she the root of your anger issues?” she smartly queries.
“Yes,” I say, no hesitation to that reply. I know my demons, perhaps a little too well. “I was getting into fights and my father had enough. He took me to a gym and told them to knock some sense into me. It worked.” I think back to that first day in the ring, to getting punched and pissed off, and standing up and screaming, “More! Do it again!”
“Where are you right now?” Emma asks, nudging me with her arm.
“Remembering that first day in the gym.” My lips turn up in a wry smile. “My father was smart to drop me there. He was a good man.”
“I wish I could say that about mine.” She shakes her head. “Why did I go there? Let’s skip that topic. Did your father remarry?”
“No,” I say, letting the topic of her father go, when I’d rather not, but her loss is fresh. I get that. “He didn’t remarry,” I add. “I don’t think he had it in him to love again. He loved the hell out of my mother. Passionately. Intensely. I didn’t have to be an adult to see or know that he got hurt. My tough as nails father was shredded inside, but stayed strong for his boys.”
“No wonder you’re thirty-four, marriage material, and still single.” She holds up a hand. “Not that I’m contemplatingmarrying you. We’re the worst match ever. Our families hate each other.” She curls her legs in front of her and I finish off a slice and catch her leg, turning her to face me, sliding my arm under her knees. “We are whatever we decide we are.”
