Say You Still Love Me(67)

“Someone’s lost,” Kyle murmurs.

I turn. And frown at the familiar black Lincoln SUV with tinted windows now parked beside us.

Eddie, my dad’s hired driver, steps out, offering me a curt nod on his way to open the back passenger door.

Out comes my father.

“Dad!” I exclaim, dashing forward. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Can’t I surprise my daughter?” he says evenly, smoothing the lapel of his typical crisp, tailored navy suit. The fact that it’s muggy and warm hasn’t stopped him from dressing so formally, and on a Saturday. Obviously he was coming from an important meeting. His cold blue eyes flitter around us, taking stock of the campground, before landing on me once again. My friends back home are convinced that my dad belongs on an afternoon soap opera, not just because his very presence commands attention but also because of his deep, velvety voice.

“Of course. It’s just . . . you’re hours away.” I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders.

He returns the warm embrace, and it instantly brings me back ten years to my six-year-old self, curled up on his lap, watching him read through building proposals.

“I was looking at a potential investment property today that’s only forty minutes away, so I figured I’d take the opportunity to swing by.”

“You should have called.”

“I thought your cell phone doesn’t work well out here.”

“You’re right. Good thing you caught me. We were just heading into town.”

“Is that what you were doing.” His sharp, raptor’s gaze shifts to settle behind me.

And with that look, any hope that Dad’s attention was engrossed in a report when he drove up—and that he missed the public mauling—withers away.

I feel my cheeks burn as I take a step back and clear my throat. “Dad, this is Kyle. Kyle, this is my dad.”

Kyle steps forward, extending his hand. “Hi, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

My dad pauses a moment to assess Kyle’s face, then his hand, before finally taking it. “I take it you’re a camp counselor, too?”

“Yeah.” Kyle reaches up to scratch his bicep, inadvertently flashing the ink on his arm.

My dad’s eyes narrow but he says nothing, his focus instead shifting to Kyle’s car.

“Can’t say I’ve seen a Pinto on the road in quite some time. For good reason, it would seem.”

Kyle dips his head to hide his smirk. “It’s my brother’s car. I’m just using it for the summer.”

“And what’s he using?”

“Uh . . .” Kyle seems caught off guard by the question. “Nothing. He went away for a while.”

“Traveling!” I flash Kyle a warning look. Not even a minute and we’ve already somehow stumbled dangerously close to the topic of Kyle’s family situation.

A frizzy head pokes out of the car window then. “Hello, Mr. Calloway. I’m Ashley. It’s nice to meet you! I met your wife last weekend. Would you like to come to dinner with us?”

A glimmer of amusement flashes across my dad’s face before it turns stern again. “No, but thank you for the invitation. In fact, I’m going to steal my daughter for a few hours. If that’s all right with her,” he adds.

As if I could say no.

“I guess I’ll see you guys later?” I try not to sound reluctant. It’s not that I don’t enjoy seeing my father. It’s that I don’t want to lose my one free night a week with Kyle.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Calloway,” Kyle offers stoically.

Dad makes a throaty sound. “Yes. Come, Piper.”

He has already decided that he doesn’t like Kyle. My stomach aches with disappointment. But behind that is a flare of anger. He’s not even giving Kyle a chance!

Kyle’s gaze flickers to my father, then back to me, and I wonder if he can tell. He shrugs. “We’ll be around here later.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.” Skating my fingers over his in a fleeting touch, I climb into the back of the Lincoln and settle into the cool leather seat, wishing dinner away.




“You made your mother very happy, agreeing to attend this . . . budget camp of hers,” my dad says through a sip of his cocktail, his eyes scrolling over the menu, his lips curled with distaste. For the scant wine list or the lackluster food options, I can’t tell. He’s already made comments about both. We found what he referred to as the only semi-respectable restaurant in town—an oversized white farmhouse that doubles as an inn, with several room rentals on the second floor. The dining room overlooks the river that cuts through town, which would be picturesque if not for the dilapidated houses and public beach on the opposite bank. My dad has scowled at the view as if it’s a personal affront to him. Poor city planning has always been a pet peeve of his.

“You’ve talked to her?” I ask, hope in my voice. Does this mean they’re working through things?

“Briefly, this morning. She called to tell me about the incident with the golf cart and the fact that my daughter is now on probation at her summer job, like some sort of delinquent.”

Shit. Darian must have called my mother.

Now this impromptu meeting makes sense. My father wants me to know how disappointed he is in me, and he needs to look me in the eye to do it. My shoulders tense. This is not good.