The words hit like a slap. Sharp and humiliating. The very idea of what he was insinuating hurt.
Blaise opened her mouth, closed it, then drew a slow, steady breath. “I’m not sure who you think I am,” she said, her voice calm despite the sting. “But regardless of my situation, I don’twant your father’s money. I enjoy spending time with him, and I care about him because he’s kind. And funny. And decent. If you can’t see that, then that’s on you.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Holland’s face, maybe conscience, maybe doubt.
She picked Beau up and moved past Holland to unlock her door, holding her dog close. “If you have concerns, talk to your father. Not me.” She hesitated, searching his expression. “And maybe think about why you felt the need to have this conversation at all.”
Holland swallowed, pressing his lips together. For a moment, he looked almost unsure. But he only grunted softly then turned and walked away without waiting for her to say anything else.
Blaise stepped inside and shut the door behind her, leaning against it as she hugged Beau, pressing his warm little body into hers.
“That dinner,” she whispered, blinking fast, “was not a win.”
Beau gave a soft, sympathetic whine.
“No, buddy,” she agreed as she set him down. Maybe coffee would help. “Not even close.”
Blaise made coffee. She paced her tiny living room as she waited for it. Beau sat anxiously in his little bed, watching her. Her hands still trembled, anger and embarrassment tangling in her chest like a knot she couldn’t pull loose.
She grabbed her phone before she could talk herself out of it.
Cece picked up on the second ring. “Hey, you. How’s your day going?”
“Not the way I thought it would.” Blaise’s voice trembled with emotion.
“Hmm. You sound like someone who needs carbs or a body hidden. Which is it?”
Blaise let out a breath that was half laugh, half choke. “It’s not that bad. Well...”
“Oh, boy. What happened?”
Blaise glanced at the front door, half expecting Holland to still be there. “Holland showed up at my house. Just now.”
“The son?” Cece said sharply. “Brick’s son?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He told me,” Blaise said, voice wobbling despite her best effort to keep it steady. “That his father doesn’t need a woman in his life. That I shouldn’t complicate things for Brick.” She paused, swallowing hard. “And that if I’m looking at Brick’s pension as a way to make my life easier, he ‘won’t allow that.’”
On the other end of the line, Cece went silent for a long, dangerous second. “Oh,” she said. “Oh,nohe didn’t.”
Blaise sank onto the couch. Beau hopped up beside her and laid down against her leg. “He was polite about it,” she admitted. “But his words cut. I didn’t even know people could be politely cruel, but apparently Holland’s fluent.”
“Blaise.” Cece’s voice softened. “Honey, that’s not on you. That’s on him. Sons can be weirdly territorial about their parents, especially after a divorce or a loss. He probably sees you as a threat to Brick’s routine. Or, worse, a threat to his control.”
“I’m not trying to control Brick,” Blaise whispered, sick at the very idea. “I only just started getting to know him. And I thought dinner last night went well.”
“I’m sure itdidgo well,” Cece said firmly. “Too well, apparently. But Holland’s insecurity isn’t your problem.”
Blaise buried her face in her free hand. “I hate feeling like this. Like some…gold-digger in a Lifetime movie. It’s honestly laughable. I’ve never wanted anything from Brick but his company.”
“And I’m sure Brick knows that.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes,” Cece said. “You think the man doesn’t know what’s going on? Please. Brick’s not stupid.”
