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Chapter Eighteen
Vivian
Ihaven’t been on a private jet in ages,” I tell Nate after takeoff.
“Beats flying commercial.” He’s stunningly suited, a tie at his neck. He looks good. All that roughhewn masculinity settled into a plush chair. He’s waiting on the flight attendant to deliver his whiskey, neat. I ordered a ginger ale. I never was able to drink on a plane without being airsick. Best to avoid vomiting on my suitor’s rented airliner if possible.
“Sorry about that.” I nod at my father’s urn. It’s like carrying a genie in a bottle around but instead of granting wishes he gifts bad memories. Bonus! There are more than three.
“Don’t be. Might help with closure.”
I shake my head. “Closure is selfish. People lost a lot of money because of him. Where is their closure?”
He smiles, which I find mildly perturbing.
“What?”
“It’s interesting how, after years of having plenty of money at your disposal, you believe it’s a finite resource.”
“It is a finite resource.”
“It’s not. There’s more than enough to go around. If I can turn a million into a billion in a relatively short time, you can out-earn your father. Without stealing. You were the source of the income you had, not him. Your talents, your gifts, your sassy mouth.” He tilts his head. “Unless you believe you don’t deserve it. That’s another matter altogether.”
“You don’t talk like a kid from juvie with junkie parents,” I murmur.
A flight attendant steps into the cabin and serves my ginger ale and Nate’s whiskey. After she learns there’s nothing more she can do for us, she disappears behind a door.
“I didn’t mean to mention that so crassly,” I mutter to Nate. “I didn’t think about being overheard.”
He presses an intercom button and the flight attendant appears a few seconds later. “Ms. Vandemark and I will need privacy for the remainder of the flight. No need to check in on us until we land.”
“Of course, Mr. Owen. I’ll grant you plenty of privacy. Ring if you need anything.” She vanishes again, shutting the door behind her.
“Being overheard is no longer an issue.” He unbuckles when the seat belt light goes off and I do the same. Then he swivels his seat to face mine. Holding his whiskey, he says, “I had to come to terms with what I deserved. It took a lot of therapy and business classes and numerous sit-downs with William Owen. He left room for no other option.”
“A good father. The mind boggles.”
“Beneath the privilege is a man who wanted better for his family. He taught me to want better too. Do you, Vivian? Want better?”
“Something wrong with my income bracket, Owen?” I snap.
He raises his eyebrows like he knows he’s being baited. “You know that’s not what I meant. You were once a high-powered executive. Do you miss it?”
“The power or the income?”
His eyes narrow, assessing. “Neither. The fact that you were where you belonged.”
“I failed spectacularly. So, no, not really.”
“Failed? The company you were dedicated to collapsed. I’d hardly call that failing.”
“My failure to notice what was under my nose is my biggest regret,” I admit. “I didn’t change my name and career because I wanted to. I was forced to.” I think of the press shadowing me at the courthouse. The shouted questions. Did you suspect your father was stealing from the company? How could you have missed the signs? Will you live in Chicago after the trial? I clear my throat to keep from curling my shoulders in shame. “I have a lot of critics, Nate.”
“I’ll bet you a thousand dollars you don’t have half as many as you think.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t Googled myself in years.”
“I liked your sass from the moment I met you, but I know what it’s masking.”
