Say You Still Love Me(25)

“He could have been a lot worse.”

“Yes, you’re right. He could have been a criminal.”

I sigh heavily. In my father’s eyes, a man’s worth is set by his family name, his bank account, and his shoes.

And I want to be done with this conversation. “Say hi to Rita for me.”

He pauses, seemingly caught off guard. “Actually, we decided to take some time apart. She moved out.”

I feel my eyebrows spike in surprise. “Since when?”

“It’s been at least a month now,” he says dismissively.

“A month!” They were together for almost a year! I thought this was the one he was going to marry. “You should have told me.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you particularly liked her.”

Like would be too strong a word for my feelings toward Rita, but at least she’s a full decade older than me, unlike the thirty-two-year-old interior designer before her. Thankfully that one was short-lived.

“I don’t like the idea of you being alone at night,” I say instead. He was alone at home when he had his heart attack. It was sheer luck that he managed to dial 9-1-1.

“And I don’t like you being alone, period,” he smoothly pivots.

“I’m not. I have Christa, and Ashley moved in, too.”

“At your age, you should be—”

“Enjoying my life.” I smile as I firmly cut him off. “Marrying David would have been a huge mistake. And have you forgotten that he suggested I quit CG so he could take over?”

Dad waves it off with, “he wasn’t serious.”

I stifle my groan. “I would have been miserable, married to him. Is that what you want, Dad? For me to be miserable?”

Whatever rebuttal was formulating on his lips dies with a resigned sigh. “Tell the girls I say hello.” Dad reaches for the door handle.

“You know who else is happy?” I tap the spoon sculpture. “Rhett is happy.” My brother moved back from Thailand a year ago with his Thai wife, Lawan. They started an up-cycling shop in a charming town an hour outside of Lennox. I’ve only been out to see it once, but it seems to fit the composting, rainwater-preserving, recycling guru he has become.

Dad’s expression sours. “Well, of course he’s happy. His mother still pays his bills and he’s always stoned.”

Unfortunately, Rhett’s altruistic lifestyle also seems to fit the pot-smoking, responsibility-shirking stereotype my dad still has him pegged for.

I can’t help but laugh, even as I shake my head at him. “He doesn’t smoke pot and Mom doesn’t pay his bills.” She just made sure he got his trust fund, something my dad was adamant about revoking until Rhett passed this “stage” in his life. “He’s coming into town in a few weeks. I’m meeting him for dinner. You should come.”

Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be away.”

“Maybe some other time, then.” I’m not feeling hopeful.

“Give me an update on the Marquee approvals by end of day.” He’s swiftly moving for his office, a room three times the size of mine and David’s, complete with solid wood walls, its own washroom, and mahogany wet bar.

With a heavy sigh—great, soon I’ll be reporting in to my father hourly—I grab my purse and phone and march out the door, sticking my head into David’s office long enough to tell him that the only thing Mark will be stapling for him is his goddamn tongue.




“So, I have a favor to ask of you . . .” I set the fancy coffee on the security desk in front of Gus.

“Whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles . . .” His brown eyes twinkle. “Must be a big favor.”

It’s quiet in the lobby for the moment, Ivan somewhere else and no one waiting to gain access to the building. Still, I lean in and drop my voice. “I saw a man in the building yesterday around lunchtime and I need his name.”

“A man.” His thick eyebrows arch curiously and I can almost see the wheels churning in his mind. Gus wasn’t impressed with my relationship with David, a truth he’s never shared out loud, but he never had to because the displeasure was plastered on his face every time David and I strolled in together.

“An old friend from summer camp. I don’t know if he works in the building or if he was visiting. Anyway, I was wondering if you could scan your entry log. I’m pretty sure it was him.” I hadn’t even thought of asking Gus until Christa, ever the quick-thinking one, mentioned checking with security.

Gus’s big brown eyes regard me curiously as he lifts the paper coffee cup to his mouth. When he pulls away, there’s a whipped cream mustache left that he doesn’t immediately wipe away.

I press my lips together to stifle my laugh.

“So what’s this friend’s name?”

“Kyle Miller.” Just saying it makes my heart leap.

“Hmm . . . Kyle Miller, from summer camp.” Gus finally wipes a napkin across his upper lip. “What does he look like?”

“Uh . . .” I try to reconcile my memories of the seventeen-year-old boy with the man I saw yesterday who, if it was Kyle, is now thirty. “About six feet tall, really fit, dark brown hair . . . and he has these pretty hazel eyes. Golden, really.”