Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(15)

“Not me—Fite,” he said, encouraged. “And as owner, you’d have your hands on the profits, too. Not just now, but for years to come—and I assure you, there will be profits. Perhaps not this year, but soon. You’re young now, but someday you’re going to want to retire and have—”

“Hold on,” she said. “All this, for doing nothing?”

“Not for nothing. For the company.”

Her face was blank. “Just because you don’t want Ellen in charge. Is that right?”

“Your aunt may have wonderful qualities,” he said, though unable to think of any, “but managing a business is not one of them. I don’t think she’ll be able to hold on to the company for more than six months, even if she wanted to.”

“Unlike you?”

“Or many, many other people.”

“How about me?” A hard gleam came into her eyes. “You’re happy enough to have me at the top.”

He had to be careful here. “Your grandfather must have left it to you for a reason.”

“And you think that had to be so you could remain in control, right? Because a stupid little preschool teacher would be easy to push around?”

“I have no opinion whatsoever about your intelligence,” he said, then paused to regret how unflattering that sounded, “or about your career. But let’s be realistic. You need the money, and Fite needs . . . to not have Ellen in charge—”

“You almost said, ‘Fite needs me.’ That’s what you mean, all of this. You’re the big important guy and without you, the company will burst into flames and everyone will be out of a job—”

“No.” His own temper flared in response to hers. “This is not about me. It’s about Fite.”

“Please.” She stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “Get out. It’s been a long, horrible day and you are now leaving.”

“Beverly—”

“Get out of my home.”

She’d never listen to him while she was so angry, so he moved over to the door and stopped just before he was out in the hallway. “I’m sorry for whatever I said that offended you. But what you’re doing is not in either of our best interests. Or Fite’s. The company is filled with real people who are going to suffer if Ellen—”

“Out.” She placed her palm in the center of his chest and began to push. “She’s not that bad.”

He was momentarily distracted by the pressure of her hand through his shirt. “All she knows how to do is fire people. She keeps a hit list in her desk—”

One unexpectedly powerful shove, and he was in the hallway. “Goodbye, Liam Johnson,” she said. “If I were in charge I’d be tempted to fire you, too.”

And then she was gone.

He glared at the closed door, heard the clicks and thumps of multiple dead bolts, and cursed himself for screwing that up so badly, not even sure what had set off her temper. Just like her aunt after all, all short-sighted emotion. If she just took a moment to think about what he’s said instead of just flying off the handle, she would see he was right.

Damn. Not that it mattered now. She’d signed the papers. It was just a matter of days.

He better get back up to San Francisco tonight to start warning the staff.



Bev carried her tray with its taco and tiny plastic cups from the salsa bar to a table near the front window. She chose an outward-facing seat so she could admire the strip mall parking lot with her getaway car while her father got a burrito.

Although Anderson Lewis was a marketing executive in Hollywood, he avoided trendy restaurants. Except when he was with Andy, of course—her older brother. He had followed in their dad’s footsteps so completely, working ten times as hard as was healthy and earning twenty times as much as Bev, so that if he made time to eat, it damn well wouldn’t be El Cheapo Taqueria off I-5 in Buena Park. And Anderson Sr. wouldn’t expect him to.

She sucked iced tea through a straw and fought back despair. No job, no hope of one for six or more months, and that arrogant jock had made her feel unclean about taking money from Fite. Stay out of the way, little girlie. Here’s a cookie. Sit over there and don’t interrupt.

Liam’s patronizing attitude had inflamed the hunger she’d been feeling to make something bigger of herself. To be in charge, making decisions and taking risks.

If anyone would understand that hunger it would be her father. Worried about her future, disgusted with her poverty, he’d been after her to get an MBA for years. A real job. Use her brains for evil, he liked to say, only half-joking.

He walked over to her, humming to himself and carrying his tray with one hand while he returned his wallet to the back pocket of his dark-wash jeans. He was tall and big-boned, like Bev, but with the sinewy physique of a fifty-year-old man who never watched TV unless he was on a treadmill.

“Since when don’t you return your own father’s calls?” he asked. “You’d think I was trying to sell you an indie picture about skin disease in a third world country.”

“Sorry, Dad. It’s been crazy.”

“Crazy.” He snorted and frowned at the foil-wrapped log on his plate. “Crazy is this thing on my plate. It’s bigger than your head.”

If Bev ever argued with her father, she would have pointed out the restaurant was his idea. “Do you want to switch?” She offered him her taco.