Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(77)

“How nice of you to finally join us,” Dad murmured. “Sit. I’ll have Amada bring your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry. Can we talk in your office?”

Dad waved a hand over his half-demolished plate, not taking his eyes off the newspaper. “I’m eating.”

“Looks like you’re done to me.”

“Mallory,” Mom scolded, in the sweetest, most unassuming voice. It annoyed me more than if she would have yelled at me. “You missed Christmas Day and now you won’t even eat breakfast with your family? What has gotten into you?”

“Sorry I missed yesterday, I wasn’t feeling well,” I said, then I turned back to Dad. “Your office? Or do you want to do this here?”

Dad gave an exaggerated sigh, taking his sweet time folding up the newspaper he was reading before he grabbed his coffee, kissed Mom on the forehead, and assured her and Malcolm that he would be back.

Again, Malcolm didn’t seem to notice any of it.

Dad followed me down the hall to the west wing of the house where his office was. As much as I hated the business done within those walls, I absolutely loved the office. Three of the four walls were covered with books — which was laughable, considering the only books my father had ever read were end-of-the-year reports on the distillery — and the last wall was a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the rolling hills of our property, the Smokies peeking out over the horizon far in the distance.

He closed the door once we were inside, taking a seat behind his desk.

I remained standing.

“What is it that you’re being so dramatic about?”

“Stop acting like you don’t know,” I said. “What the hell was all that about at the Christmas party? I’ve worked at the distillery for a month, Dad. I’m still in training. I’m not fit to take that job from Uncle Mac any more than you’re fit to be a good father.”

“Watch your tone, young lady.”

“That position was Logan’s,” I said, pressing my index finger on the top of his desk like I was pointing at indisputable proof. “And you know it.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “Cut the theatrics. This was a business move. We can’t have a Becker running an entire department, let alone the most important local one, lucratively speaking.”

“Why?” I asked, tossing my hands up in exhaustion before they fell back to my thighs with a whack. “What is your vendetta against that family? They lost their father in the one and only fire our distillery has ever had. We owe them. Besides, Papa loved their grandfather. They were partners.”

“They were not partners,” Dad said, nose flaring and face reddening. “That was never officially written on any paperwork.”

“It didn’t have to be written. They knew it because they were friends — you all were. I remember Papa telling fond stories of Logan’s dad, John. How much he saw him as a son. And I also remember seeing pictures of you and their mom, Laurelei, when you were high schoolers. You two seemed like friends then. What happened?”

Dad slammed his fist on the desk, his face so red I thought he’d burst a blood vessel if he didn’t calm down. “That’s enough. What decisions I make for my business are just that — my business. I don’t owe my daughter an explanation.”

“You do when it concerns me!” I argued. “When it’s my life, my job, my friends—”

“Logan Becker is not your friend.”

“You’re right. He’s more.” I stood tall, swallowing down whatever hesitance I’d had before that moment. “I love him, Dad. And I don’t care if that’s not permitted in your mind. And I also don’t care what you had in plan for me at that distillery, because I’m done. I’m quitting. And you’re going to give that position to Logan.”

Dad watched me for a long, slow moment, blinking several times before he let out a bark of a laugh. Then, he gave in to a whole fit of laughter, swiping at tears coming from his eyes before he spoke again. “Oh, child. Your spunk is so adorable.”

“You will give that position to Logan,” I said again, not backing down. “Because he deserves it. Because he’s the right one for the job. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“I will not.”

“You will,” I said again, folding my arms. “Or I will go see your favorite journalist at the Stratford Gazette and tell her everything about that night when I was fourteen, when our police chief sexually harassed me and my father did nothing about it.”

All the color drained from my father’s face.

Miranda Hollis loved to publish scathing articles about my father and the distillery. It seemed her mission was to get Scooter Whiskey out of Stratford, to disconnect the town from what she thought was a garbage business. Since her father was involved in politics, Dad had never been able to silence her.

Much to his dismay.

And he knew as well as I did that if she got this story, there would be a shit storm for him, for our family, for the police chief and the entire town.

He placed his palms flat on the desk, stood very, very slowly, and waited until he was towering over me to look me dead in the eye. “You will do no such thing, young lady. Now, I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but if you remember right, it’s me who pays the bills on that little studio you love so much. It’s me who bought that apartment above it where you sleep every night. And it’s me who can take all of that away,” he said, snapping to illustrate the point. “Just like that.”