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Dad sighs, stands up, and shuts my office door. He takes a seat in the chair across from my desk. His expression is one hundred percent “I didn’t want to have to do this, but…”
“I really hoped to avoid having this conversation with you, West,” he says, right on cue. Close enough. “It makes me just as uncomfortable as I’m sure it is for you.”
“Are you firing me?” I couldn’t possibly be that lucky.
“Christ. Of course not,” he says, glaring at me. “Your grandmother and I have impressed upon you how important this reorganization is.”
“You have. Repeatedly.”
“And you are also aware that your… proclivities might pose a threat to the security of our company.” Dad waves his hand vaguely in my direction. My entire body tenses.
“Make your point,” I say, grinding my teeth. “I have other places to be.”
“Yes, well, I sincerely hope one of those places is not with Raleigh Griffin and Callahan Hale.”
For a moment, I’m deaf to the world, to everything but the pounding pulse in my own head.
“What did you just say?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Weston,” says Dad, disgust on his face. “You swore you’d be discreet. Did you honestly think we’d just take your word for it?”
That takes a moment to fully register.
“You had me followed?”
“Keep your voice down,” he says, all irritable superiority. “Of course we did. If the media, or God forbid, The Fuller Group, got wind of anything untoward—”
I close the laptop as quietly as I’m able, withdrawing my keys from my desk.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dad asks, rising up from his chair. Like I’m still a kid he’s not finished lecturing.
“I’m done for today,” I say tightly. “See you on Monday.” Maybe. I don’t say it, but the implication is clear.
I never intended to go to work for my dad. He was never around much when I was a kid, and I don’t know where I got the foolish idea that our relationship would improve when I grew up, but it didn’t.
The absolute gall of them. I didn’t doubt for a minute this was his idea. My grandmother might hold her nose, but she won’t go seeking out the trash. This was Dad’s doing, start to finish.
God. And I was the one who’d suggested keeping our relationship a secret in the first place.
I make it out of the building without incident. Apparently the “don’t fucking talk to me” vibe is an effective one. I turn left automatically to start toward my apartment, but a neon sign up the street catches my eye. If ever a week called for a drink, it was this one.
The place is little more than a hole in the wall, but a good-sized dining room keeps it from feeling cramped. I unbutton my coat and take a seat at the bar. The bartender nods in acknowledgment. While I wait for him to finish with his current customers—the place is already half stacked with people at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, too; don’t these people have to work?—and get around to checking my texts.
It’s not Raleigh this time. His messages have been getting fewer and fewer by the day, and I know it’s because I’m not engaging him. I tell myself it’s because I’ve been so busy, and that’s true. But that’s not much of an excuse.
They’re better off without you. That’s what I keep coming back to, all week. Ever since we got back from the beach. They’d both be better off without me. Raleigh can find someone as bright and sunny as he is, and Callahan wouldn’t have to worry about hurting the person she loves most in the world.
I wouldn’t have to worry about Finn killing me in my sleep. And none of them would have to worry about my family’s abiding public—as in, only in public—commitment to “Family Values.”
It would be easier all around if I just let them go.
Images of last weekend flash through my mind—the ecstasy on Callie’s face, the wonder in Raleigh’s eyes, the sheer joy of discovery I’d seen reflected between all of us—and I know in the fiber of my soul I can’t do it. I can’t just let that go, let them go.
The bartender lays a paper menu down in front of me.
“Get you a drink?” It sounds like a come-on, which I didn’t expect. The bartender’s got a grin on his face, like he’s letting me in on the joke. Doesn’t hurt that he’s built like a damn Sherman tank and gorgeous besides.
“Whiskey, neat,” I say, amused despite myself. Sherman taps the bar top with his fist and pours the drink.
