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“Thank you. She’s having a rough time at school with something, but she’s not talking to me about it,” Izzy says worriedly. She and Toni are close, but there are things that a teenage girl doesn’t want to discuss with her mother. Of course, she might not want to talk about them with her brother either.
And there are probably things I don’t want to hear about too. La-la-la-la-la . . . I sing to myself, blocking out any thoughts of Toni being a grown woman.
I nod, silently promising to see what I can do.
“You two get to work,” Izzy orders us good-naturedly. Dad starts to argue, but she holds up a hand to stop him. “It’s okay, Ben. I’ll go wander about my old stomping grounds for a bit. It’s nice to see how far everything’s come but know the history is still there too.” Izzy pats her heart as though the foundation of Americana Land resides in her chest.
Dad watches her go with a sly smile, and I’m pretty sure he’s staring at her ass as she slides out the door. Once she’s out of sight, Dad turns his attention to me.
“What’s going on? Is Miss Rice figuring out how to right our ship? I hope you’re not giving her trouble.” Dad’s frown says clearly that he’s afraid that’s why I’m here—to bitch and moan about Jayme.
Why does he automatically assume that? It’s not as though I’m some entitled brat who feels like I deserve my corporate role by birthright. I worked my way into it with blood, sweat, and tear-stained textbooks I pored over during late-night study sessions to get through school. But he’s treating me like a placeholder who fucks up on the regular.
Or my brother.
That’s what irks me. Yes, I fucked up with the Abby Burks thing, but I’m not Archer.
“We’re working together well, actually,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “She’s had some good ideas, and I’ve got the team working on putting them in place while I work with her on the cornerstone of the campaign.”
Dad leans back in his chair, looking at me closely. “Well, holy shit, Son.” Slowly, a smile blooms in the center of his silver beard and mustache and light fills his eyes.
“What?” I say, my brows knit.
“I think you met your match in that one.” He sounds rather pleased with himself.
Helping myself to one of his chairs, I get comfortable while I enjoy making him wait for the details he’s hungry for. “Jayme’s good. I don’t know where you found her, but she came in with some fresh ideas. She’s helping with a hell of a lot more than just this Burks situation.”
Dad frowns thoughtfully, and I realize that I walked right into a trap of my own making.
“Like what? Did she find something else wrong?”
It sounds like an accusation to my ears, even though Dad’s tone is merely curious.
“Not wrong. More like opportunities we can take advantage of, especially in the social media arena since that’s where things went awry.”
I explain the full scope of the campaign Jayme’s planned and the progress my team is already making on implementing it since the urgent meeting I called this morning. “Xavier has a small team starting to scour for candid shots of younger guests for that demographic, and then they’ll use them to create buzz. I’ve got Stephanie working on sourcing a few travel-specific vloggers in that age range for sponsored vacations in return for directed marketing. And Jin is going to coordinate with the graphic arts team to design a Find Freddy Freebird visual.”
I’m proud of what we’re accomplishing, of what we’ve done in a short time. There’s still a lot to do, but this is a solid start.
“And what about you? What are you doing, specifically?” Dad crosses his arms over his chest, considering me.
An immature side of me wants to take offense, to get angry with him. But I’m no longer a child and instead rise to the challenge with my words and thoughts rather than grunts and growls.
“Overseeing all that I just mentioned,” I reply tersely. I’m not letting him get away with casting shade, but I’m not going to lose it either. “And I’m working with Jayme on a new summer concert series.”
Boom. Mic drop. I’m planning a whole handful of concerts.
He pulls his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighs. “I meant what are you doing to repair your reputation? We can’t have everyone thinking you’re a hot-headed asshole who gets rough with guests.” So quiet I barely hear it, he mutters, “Even if that’s what the video makes it look like.”
“I thought I was helping,” I declare, my jaw clenching as I hold onto my temper. Leaning forward, I jab a finger into the surface of Dad’s desk. “I’m sure if you asked Barbara or the security guards, they don’t regret my getting involved on their behalf.”
