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“I presume you are discussing my contract with Spiros?”
“You know that I am.”
“So you think it insulting that I retain a real and material interest in the company?”
Aristotle just glared. “It is not necessary.”
“In your opinion.”
“I am your father.”
Phoebe said nothing, but the look in her eyes said an important facet of father-daughter trust had been lost between them. And the stubborn tilt of her chin said she wasn’t budging, regardless.
“I have no problem with the contract you want me to sign, but I agree that the terms are insulting to me,” Spiros said.
“I am sorry it offends you, Spiros. Truly.” And her expression was as sincere as her words. “But I have my reasons.”
“They are not reasons you will discuss in front of me,” her father slotted in, faster than Spiros could take a breath.
“I will not agree to the marriage until he signs the contract,” Phoebe said with intransigence.
“I will sign.” But he would make her explain her so-called reasons to him later.
“Good.” She turned to Aristotle. “And you, Father? Will you sign your contract?”
“It requires both my signature and Spiros’.”
“I am aware of it. But he has already said he will sign.”
The older man sighed, looking every one of his years. “Yes, I will agree to your terms.”
“Perfect. Then I think we can go out to lunch to celebrate,” Phoebe said, as if a business negotiation had gone well.
Aristotle shook his head as he signed all three copies of the contract relating to the company. “I need to go home and speak to your mother. Informing her of stipulations three and five on Spiros’s personal contract is not something that should be done over the phone.”
“You aren’t going to make me break the news to her?” Phoebe asked, sounding shocked.
“It is the least I can do,” her father replied gruffly.
Phoebe stood and gave an impulsive hug to her father, which he returned with a great deal of strength—a Greek man obviously bordering on emotion he was hoping not to show. Not that Greek men were as afraid of showing their feelings as some, but men like Aristotle would never be comfortable with that sort of thing. Regardless of their heritage.
Phoebe waited for Spiros to bring up the contract over lunch, but he seemed content to chat about inconsequential topics.
Her nervousness grew with each minute that went by without the subject being raised, until finally she blurted, “I’m surprised you signed the contract without argument.”
“Would you have compromised on any of the points?”
“No.”
“Then I made the right call.”
“But you didn’t even try.”
“Your father did not want to know your reasoning, and I knew to do so would be an exercise in futility. So I opted not to waste any of our time.”
“How could you know?”
“Do I really need to answer that?”
