The Passing Storm(68)

“You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

Rae swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

“You have not.” Affection brimmed on Yuna’s features. “And I love you too.”

“How’s your tummy? I left mouthwash in the guest bathroom, just in case.”

Yuna lifted her cup. “The peppermint tea is doing the trick.” She’d brought along her laptop. Flipping it open, she added, “Kameko’s play date lasts another hour. Since we’ve both knocked off work early, want to tackle another item for the June fundraiser? We still haven’t decided on a theme.”



On the second floor of Marks Auto, his father’s private area was a hawk’s nest overseeing the activity below.

The sales staff, the office staff, the service reps—all were relegated to cubbyholes on the main floor. What those offices lacked in size, they made up for in privacy. They weren’t visible from above.

With two carryout bags in his fist, Griffin strode from the elevator.

The balcony outside his father’s office ran a good length above the showroom below, where a select group of new-model cars and trucks gleamed beneath spotlights. At the circular customer service desk, a young couple was flipping through a Marks Auto brochure on financing options. Near the back of the showroom, behind a nine-foot partition, part of the cafeteria was also visible. Though employees were required to punch in and out for lunch, it hardly mattered. No one lingered for long, not with the boss able to spy from above.

Griffin checked his phone. It was twelve on the dot. Perfect.

Mik entered the lunchroom. After three days of this cat-and-mouse game, the mechanic was no longer caught unawares.

His angry gaze lifted to the balcony. Loathing narrowed Griffin’s eyes.

The staring match lasted for eight seconds before Mik surrendered. Two seconds longer than yesterday, Griffin mused.

Frowning, Mik strode to the cafeteria’s vending machines. He dug cash from his pocket.

From his office, Everett finished barking into the phone. “How long are you going to keep this up?” he shouted.

Griffin strolled inside.

“You tell me, Dad—he’s still here, and you and I had an understanding.” When his father refused to pick up on the comment, Griffin paused before the mahogany desk. He held up the larger of the two carryout bags. “I brought you turkey on rye. If I keep bringing you steak sandwiches, Mom will get after me. There’s also a side of fries. And a fruit cup, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

With irritation his father appraised the bag dropped before his nose. Everett was a large bull of a man, with a potbelly and a ferocious intellect. He liked appearing in the showroom unannounced to watch his minions scatter.

“You don’t need to bring me lunch, short stuff. I have a staff at my beck and call.”

Short stuff. At seventy, Everett stood six foot four. Age had stolen an inch of his height.

Griffin was six two.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, ignoring the bait.

“You’ve been working across the street for two years now. We never ‘do lunch.’” Everett scratched the white thatch of hair rimming his temples. “Why is that?”

“You know why, Dad. If we make this a habit, I’ll get hooked on antacids. I’m a man in my prime. I shouldn’t have to deal with heartburn.”

“You come over for family dinners. I don’t see you popping antacids.”

“That’s different. You ease off the gas when Mom’s around.”

Superiority glossed Everett’s smile. “You may have a point.” He waved a benevolent hand. “Take a seat.”

Three chairs were arranged before the desk. Hard-backed, steel—they resembled prisoners lined up before a firing squad.

Griffin tossed his bagged lunch on the nearest one. “Hold that thought,” he murmured, falling upon inspiration. A new tactic.

Just to keep things interesting with Mik.

At the balcony, he watched the mechanic tear open a bag of peanuts. Earbuds stuck in his big, square head, his foot tapping along. Griffin drilled him with a hard stare. Mik looked around, starting suddenly when he encountered Griffin’s expression.

Nuts scattered across the floor.

Everett shouted, “Stop badgering him! I told you I’d talk to him, and I did!”

Griffin came back inside. “I didn’t ask you to talk to him. I want Mik fired.” Rustling the bag open, he withdrew his lunch.

Dodging the remark, his father landed his competitive gaze on the container. “What’d you get for yourself?”

“A salad, with ahi tuna.”

“Lettuce is a side dish. A man needs a hearty lunch.”

“And how long have you been taking statins?” When his father shrugged, Griffin switched topics. “What did you tell Mik?” For three days now, he’d been unsuccessful at prying the details loose.

“You first. Why was Rae at your firm on Monday? You never explained. Are you designing a website for the Witt Agency?”

“No.”

Everett smirked. “I know that, short stuff. I called Evelyn Witt to check.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“To see you squirm, I suppose.” With relish, his father bit into the turkey on rye. “The way I hear it, Rae almost rammed the building. The girl who left you in the dust back in high school, aiming her car like a bullet—craziest story I’ve heard in weeks. Why was she fired up?”