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“Oh, I’m sorry, is there someone in your bed right now? Someone Ihired to help write your autobiography?” he demands.
For a second, guilt flashes through me. Then I remember I haven’t actuallydoneanything.
I mean, stealing Hazel’s dessert wasn’t my finest moment. But she’s so goddamnaggravating.Always pushing, pushing, after I’ve fuckingtoldher a question is off limits.
But I’m definitely not sleeping with her. And if I was, it wouldn’t be any of my dad’s business.
“Technically, I’m paying Hazel, not you,” I yawn, because I know it pisses him off when he thinks I’m not taking something seriously enough.
“My house.Now,” he orders. Then he hangs up.
I scowl at my phone. I don’t particularly feel like driving to Montclair, New Jersey on a Saturday morning to be yelled at by my dad like a misbehaving teenager.
But the alternative is falling back asleep and risking dreaming of Hazel again.
So I roll out of bed, take a quick shower, and drive 45 minutes to New Jersey.
* * *
Objectively speaking,my childhood home is a mansion. It’s a majestic brick building with a rolling lawn, perched on a hill that overlooks Manhattan.
I let myself in the front door and stand in the cavernous foyer.
It’s a huge building, but it never felt empty until after my mom passed. She was the one who hosted parties, who had a million friends, who made sure we all sat down for meals as a family.
But it was more than just the events she organized. She had the kind of natural warmth that filled whatever room she was in.
Like Hazel, I think, and then shove the thought aside.
“Dad?” I call. He doesn’t answer.
That means he’s probably in his study, on the third floor.
I climb the stairs and trudge down the dark hallway to his office.
I knock on the door.
“Come in,” he grumbles. According to his longtime secretary, my dad and I sound exactly the same when we’re angry. I don’t hear it, but maybe that’s why so many of my employees are scared of disappointing me.
I’ve seen grown men cower when reporting to my dad at work.
Too bad I’m immune to his disapproval. At some point in college, I realized I was never going to win his approval, no matter how hard I tried, so I gave up trying.
I step into his office. Unlike the rest of the house, which was furnished in warm colors and soft fabrics by mom, this room is dark and practical to the point of austerity.
My dad’s standing with his back to me, staring out the window. I got my height, build, and coloring from him. The only thing I got from my mom was my eyes.
He values manners and respect above all else, so to piss him off I slouch into the chair by the window and drawl, “So, what do you think I’ve done now? And why the hell do you think it involves Hazel?”
He turns around and shoves a stack of photos at me, eyes furious.
I glance at the first photo. It’s of me and Hazel, taken last night.
I feel my own anger rise. “You’re spying on me?”
“No. I have a deal with the local paparazzi. They know if they get an incriminating shot of you, I’ll buy it for more than they’ll make selling it to the papers,” he says.
I snort. “Nothing incriminating about this. I had a work dinner with an employee.”
