No Kissing Allowed (No Kissing Allowed #1)(45)

Chapter Twenty-Two


The drive to visit Aidan’s father proved to be full of tense silence. I tried to start a conversation, then another. Tried to find music that would soften the mood. But the lines creasing Aidan’s forehead never relaxed.

We pulled down a long driveway to a mansion overlooking the canal in Quogue. “This is his house?” I asked, unable to look away from the ginormous house before me. Worn wood and stone covered the two-story exterior, set off by vibrant white trim around large windows that were sure to bring in fantastic lighting.

Aidan followed my gaze up to the house, his hands still on the steering wheel. “One of his houses.”

A part of me wanted to ask how many houses he had if this was merely one of them, but then I took in Aidan’s pained expression and instead asked, “How long’s it been?”

“What?”

“Since you saw him. How long since you saw your father?”

He sighed. “Four years. We’ve attended some of the same advertising events, but I’ve always managed to escape without speaking to him directly.”

“Does he know you’re coming?”

“Yes. He doesn’t appreciate surprises and prefers to stick to a strict schedule. When I was a kid, we had breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six thirty every day. Like clockwork. And if something happened to cause a delay, Mom would hear about it for a week.”

I stared down at the clock on the dash. “It’s one ten. Are we late?”

His mouth curved into a small smile. “Yes. I wanted to prove a point.” He drew a long breath, then peered back over at me. “Are you ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

Running his hands down his slacks once, he then pushed from the car and walked around to my side, opening the door for me and helping me out. The front door opened even before we made it past the second step to the flagstone porch.

A petite woman in her early forties greeted us. Her black hair was swept back into a low ponytail, and she was dressed in a narrow pencil skirt and white blouse. She looked as though she’d either just returned from the office or was heading there now.

“It’s nice to see you again, Aidan,” the woman said, reaching out a hand.

Aidan took it and kissed her cheek. “Whitney, this is Cameron, a friend of mine. Cameron, Whitney is my father’s personal assistant.”

I nodded a hello to her. “It’s nice to meet you.” But as I studied her, I wondered why a personal assistant would be required to stay at her employer’s vacation home. It reeked of inappropriate behavior, but I knew better than to ask Aidan about it later.

“He’s sitting out on the patio. This way.”

I stepped in ahead of Aidan and tried not to gawk at the beauty that was this house. The two-story foyer boasted a vintage-looking chandelier, the wall to our right a large painting of a single sailboat out in an expansive ocean. The painting was decidedly sad, and it made me wonder if there was more to Stuart Graham than appearances and history might suggest. Of course, it could have been a decorator’s choice and have little to do with the house’s owner.

The foyer led to a large living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a giant wide-screen hung over a stone fireplace, and white bookshelves rose on either side of the fireplace, both filled with books that appeared much older than the house itself. An ornate rug tied the room together, and two white leather couches sat around the rug in an L-shape. Beyond the furniture and books, there were three wall hangings on the opposite wall from the fireplace, but no photos of people, family, or friends. No photos of Aidan. I wondered if Aidan noticed this as well or if he even cared.

Whitney led us past the kitchen, all stainless steel and granite and as large as half my apartment. Maybe all of it. Lemon and sage and other seasonings I didn’t recognize hit my nose, and my stomach rumbled despite my effort to push aside my hunger.

“We’ll eat in a few minutes. Is that okay?”

Embarrassed, I nodded. “Of course.”

She opened a set of French doors to a flagstone patio that matched the porch, and immediately her face lit with a smile that was far too unnatural to go unnoticed. Still, my gaze followed hers to the man sitting in a white wicker chair, his eyes focused on the canal.

“You’re late,” he said.

Whitney started to reply for us when Aidan waved her off. “We’re okay.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she retreated into the house, closing the doors quietly behind her.

“This is Cameron Lawson. Cameron, Stuart Graham.”

At that his father’s gray eyes lifted to mine. His hair had long since turned white, and though his skin held the remnants of a tan, today his face was as pale as his hair. “Lawson? Any relation to Jeremy Lawson?”

“No, sir. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He nodded, then threaded his hands together over his stomach and continued his stare over the water. Aidan seemed to understand that response better than me and motioned for us to sit in the matching wicker love seat beside his father. A glass table, trimmed in wicker to match the rest of the set, sat in front of us, and within a minute, Whitney returned with a tray of tea and water.

“It’s sweet,” she said to me, pointing at the tea. “Aidan mentioned you were in Alabama before, so I thought—” Stuart cleared his throat and Whitney froze, then backed away, an apologetic expression on her face before she disappeared back into the house.