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I need to work, especially on contacting Jazmyn Starr’s agent, and with whatever progress Carson and his team have made this morning. I want to see Carson too. But what I say is . . .
“Anything you want, Taya. I’m yours.”
“That’s what I thou-ou-ought,” she sings, grinning as she presses her finger to her ear like she has an earpiece in. “Let’s go shopping. I’ll call ahead.”
With that decided, I hop from bed to get dressed in public-appropriate clothes because being out with Taya means eyes will follow, even when the store agrees to close down for an hour while Taya has free reign to browse. But I take a quick second to text Carson.
Me: Won’t be in today after all. Working on a lead for our concert series headliner.
Carson: Sounds good.
A minute later, though, as I’m pulling a curling iron through my hair, my phone dings again.
Carson: I miss you.
I smile, reading it again. Before I can answer in kind, Taya barges into the bathroom to steal my phone. “Nope, lover boy can wait. Your ass is mine today.”
I sigh, knowing she’ll stand by that and keep my phone. She’s able to hold onto things tighter than a bank if she wants to. It’s usually so I don’t work while we hang out, and it’s honestly for my own good. But today, I really want to grab my phone back and talk to Carson. Which means I probably need today to get my head on semi-straight and let some logic rule over my . . .
“That man can have your pussy tomorrow,” Taya says, finishing my own thought as well as setting her boundary for today.
CHAPTER 9
CARSON
“Hey, Boston, is Dad in?” I say, already walking to his office door. If he isn’t, I’m still going in.
Boston hops up, intercepting me. “Yes, but—”
I only hear the ‘yes’ before I open the door.
I should’ve waited Boston out, listened to him, or maybe called Dad before showing up because I will never get the image that greets me out of my head. Izzy is sitting crossways in Dad’s lap, her arms around his neck. Dad has one arm around her back and one hand resting on her inner thigh as they kiss deeply. Thank God Izzy is wearing pants today because if she’d been wearing a skirt, I think I’d have to scoop my eyeballs out with a spoon to make the image disappear.
“Carson!” Dad shouts at the interruption. “What the hell? Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
“Sorry, Mr. Steen. I tried to tell him,” Boston says deferentially.
I snort derisively, pointedly directing my vision to the ceiling so I don’t have to see any more than I already have. “And this is definitely against the corporate handbook’s guidance on appropriate office behavior. Sorry, I was hoping to meet with you about the PR campaign.”
I know that’s a topic he won’t let lie, and even better that it is my true intention in wanting to see him.
“Oh! Of course,” he mutters, gently pushing Izzy out of his lap. She stands, straightening her slacks and then her hair. “Sorry, dear.”
Izzy smiles warmly at Dad, but her smile is more of a grimace when she whirls my way. She’s a beautiful woman, and I can see what Dad saw in her all those years ago. I don’t begrudge her place in his life over Mom. He deserves to be happy. But that doesn’t mean Izzy’s my favorite, nor am I hers.
“Hi, Izzy. How are you doing?” We agreed on polite civility long ago, neither of us wanting to step on the other’s toes too much.
“Fine. And you, Carson?” she says in return.
“Fine.”
And that’s about the extent of that. We’re good for another month or so, or at least until Dad invites me over for dinner and I have to make small talk with her for an entire meal. There’s only so much one can say about the weather.
“Have you talked to Toni lately? I know how much she misses you when you get busy.”
That’s the other topic we can find common ground on—my half-sister, Toni. There was every chance in the world that Archer and I would hate Toni and vice-versa. We grew up with Dad claiming us proudly while Toni was hidden away. And trying to blend into one big, happy family when we were teens and Toni was in elementary school certainly didn’t seem likely.
But I’ve loved Toni from about five minutes after we met for the first time. She’s the absolutely epic little sister that anyone who has half a heart would want, bright and bubbly as champagne, with enough bite to keep things interesting.
I cringe, regret flashing sourly in my gut. “Shit, I’ve been so caught up with this whole Abby Burks thing that I haven’t called or texted her. I’ll do that today,” I promise Izzy.
