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My father frowned. “Of course you have, son. We both know how steady and competent you are. But…work has been intense lately, and the move to London, including everything that has to be accomplished before then, has got to have you feeling at least a little anxious.”
I released a breath, massaging the small pinch in my chest. For a moment, just one, it felt like that pinch was somehow rising from wherever it existed, becoming sound, forming words. For a moment I wanted to say, Yes, Dad, yes, I’m anxious and confused and though I’ve never slipped, I feel myself slipping now. But I’d never done that. I didn’t know how to do that. Instead, I answered, “I’ve got a handle on it.”
My dad nodded, and my mom patted my hand. “I’m proud of you,” my dad said. “I couldn’t ask for a better right-hand man.”
Right-hand man.
The term made pride radiate inside me, relieving the pinch, and I sat up a little straighter. All my life, I’d strived to make my parents proud of me, especially my father. I’d joined the clubs he suggested I join, I dominated in the sports he wanted me to play, I’d achieved perfect grades and been admitted to the very best colleges.
I’d been the perfect son.
And then I’d joined the company he’d built from the ground up, working hard and performing above and beyond expectations. Proving that I could be his right-hand man.
The one who would carry on his legacy someday, not only here in the U.S., but abroad in London and eventually other international locations. Because of me, my father’s company would not only thrive, but grow and expand, passed on from father to son, and eventually I’d do the same with my own.
I closed my eyes briefly and attempted to bring back the scent of Blakely’s perfume, but the sensory recall was strangely tinged with an earthy saltiness that belonged to another woman. Jesus. I picked up the menu and attempted to clear my brain completely as I stared unseeing at the list of entrée choices.
“By the way,” my mother said, “speaking of your move, we were supposed to talk about your going-away party. Did you consider the two dates I texted? We’ll need to get invitations out right away if we’re going to give people more than a month’s notice.”
I worked to remember the dates she’d texted over just before I’d gone on that damn guys’ trip that had resulted in an upheaval of my life. Or at least my focus. And now my peace. So get back on track, Buchanan. You’ve never let anyone ruin your peace. Ever. I hardly wanted a going-away party, but the more things to distract me right now, the better. “Remind me of the dates,” I said.
“Well my first choice would be the twelfth,” my mother said. “But—”
“The twelfth is fine. Book it.”
My mother smiled and pulled out her phone. “Wonderful,” she said as she typed into her calendar, I assumed. “And,” my mother said, giving my hand another pat as she set her phone down. “How exciting that you and Blakely are considering a relationship. If it works out between you, perhaps you’ll be a couple by the time the party rolls around. There will be so many things to celebrate.”
A myriad of emotions swirled. The pleasant anticipation that always came with the possibility of pleasing my family, the pinch of confusion and anxiety I’d been experiencing lately, and a vague panic I couldn’t identify. “We’re not making any decisions before the party,” I told my mother.
“Oh, well that makes sense. I know nothing’s set in stone,” my mom said quickly, “and we don’t mean to pressure you. But…sometimes passion grows with time, darling.” She glanced at my father and gave him an affectionate smile. “I didn’t realize I could love your father any more than I did on our wedding day, but things have only gotten better.”
I resisted making an ick face. I definitely didn’t want to think of my parents and passion in the same sentence. But in actuality, the only visual the word conjured was that of an assprint in green felt. And while that image brought with it a minor buzz of excitement, a whirl of disappointment also spiraled through my veins.
Maybe passion wasn’t all it was chalked up to be anyway. Maybe I’d do without passion by choice.
Because look where passion had gotten me so far.
I’d decided to wait for the weekend when Faith had a public showing at her gallery to speak to her as privately as possible and demand answers about why she was collecting art from Calliope citizens under false pretenses. But fate stepped in the next day when I was driving to work and spotted a woman walking a few blocks ahead, ebony hair glinting in the sun, her arm extended as she held several leashes in her hand attached to a trio of dogs who trotted ahead of her.
What the hell are you doing now, woman? And whose dogs are those?
My heart lurched as, without thinking, I made a sudden turn, coffee sloshing from the cup I was holding and splattering across my lap as horns blared. “Damn it,” I muttered, taking my hand off the wheel momentarily as I wiped the coffee that had spilled on my gray pants with my hand, only making it worse. Fuck. I was due to make a presentation in thirty minutes.
Up ahead, Rory must have heard the horns because she paused and turned, our eyes meeting through the windshield as I halted at a stop sign less than a hundred feet from her. I watched as her eyes widened and she pulled in a breath, glancing at the dogs quickly and then raising her head to look around, obviously weighing her options for escape.
Some unnamed thrill took up inside me and I tried my best to tamp it down. But I couldn’t help the smile that stretched across my face right before she turned and ran.
Oh, no, you don’t.
I pressed on the gas, shooting through the stop sign even though it wasn’t my turn and causing the car to my right to hit their brakes. “What the hell, Gage?” a man yelled out his window.
Up ahead, Rory turned right into the park, the dogs all barking in excitement at the sudden, unexpected run she was taking them on. The dogs split apart when they came upon a low bush and she easily jumped it, shooting a look over her shoulder.
I swore I saw exhilaration in her expression.
“Is this a challenge, Cakes?” I caught sight of my own face in the rearview mirror and noticed I was grinning. “Okay then, it’s on.”
I sped up, taking a sharp turn as I bypassed the park entrance and raced around the corner to head her off on the other side. I watched out the side window as she wove and dodged, jumping over hedges, the dogs now barking and tangled and attempting to run in three separate directions. The little black one wearing the Burberry sweater looked positively gleeful.
