Steam (Homecoming Hearts #4)(13)

Urgh. Trent hadn’t meant to upset him. He just didn’t feel able to navigate a conversation with anyone right now. He simply needed to get through this first meeting with his dad. Then he could maybe act normal again.

Maybe he’d see this guy around later to apologize. Unless he was checking out? Well, then Trent wouldn’t have to worry about him again.

Except, he didn’t like the idea he had made such a seemingly nice person sad.

Feeling more of a jerk than ever, Trent yanked his suitcases forward. The puppy scampered by his feet as they crossed the lobby of the main lodge and went down one of the corridors toward the gift shop. Okay, this was it. Whatever happened now, things would be better afterward. Right?

His dad was behind the counter of the jumbled gift shop, fiddling with the scuffed radio and drinking coffee from one of the green-and-silver-striped mugs that immediately brought Trent back to his childhood. It was like no time had passed at all. Except so much had changed in the years since he had last set foot in this place.

“Hi, Dad,” he said softly.

Trenton Sr. looked up. Then he looked back down again.

Trent swallowed and eased his way further inside the shop, leaving his luggage out in the corridor. It was difficult enough to maneuver himself and the dog inside due to the fact that the place was an Aladdin’s cave of junk and crap.

Stock teetered haphazardly in towers that defied physics. Ashtrays and maracas and creepy wool dolls. Magnets and shot glasses and miniature wooden clogs that Trent had never thought had a place in an American ski lodge. Poorly painted Christmas baubles rattled as Trent passed, trying to restrain the puppy from sniffing at the yo-yos on the bottom shelf they were passing.

“Um, it’s good to see you,” Trent tried again.

Trent’s dad was a weather-worn man in his fifties. His skin was tanned and starting to wrinkle, his dark hair beginning to gray. He wore the same style of chunky knit cardigan he had worn to this store every single day for over two decades. His glasses had a smudge that Trent saw reflected from the fluorescent lighting above.

“What’s that?” his dad asked, jutting his chin toward the St. Bernard puppy.

“Uh,” said Trent. Fucking hell. He performed for a living. He made blockbuster movies and had sung in front of eighty thousand people numerous times. Yet his old man made him tongue-tied. “He’s for you.”

He bent down to pick up the puppy, who naturally squirmed and wagged his already quite powerful tail. A tail that swiped off a whole row of china bells with ‘Visit Wyoming!’ painted cheerfully all over them. Trent cringed as they clattered to the floor, breaking several in the process.

He looked over at his dad whose jaw was tense. “Um,” said Trent and cleared his throat. “I’ll pay for those,” he muttered sheepishly, trying to minimize his large bulk. He held up the puppy. “He’s, uh, well. I thought you could call him Merlin. Or Arthur, I uh…”

He knew he’d fucked up as soon as the words left his mouth. His dad’s scowl intensified and he picked up his coffee to take an aggressive swig. “He’s not Lancelot.”

Trent gritted his teeth and moved closer, narrowly avoiding the display of pint glasses with the wrong mountains engraved on the sides. Honestly, he didn’t know why his dad still cared so much when the company gave him such shit to sell.

“I know he’s not, Dad. But I thought you might like a new friend. He’s a cute little guy.”

Lancelot had been an old dog when he’d passed away peacefully last summer. But after Trent’s mom’s sudden departure the year before, Trent suspected his dad had taken that heartbreak even worse. Trent missed the big old dude, too, but there was only so long someone could wallow in grief. Trent knew his dad well enough to think he’d appreciate the company a new puppy would bring.

Except, he wouldn’t even look at the poor puppy.

“You can’t just replace people, Trent,” his dad said, settling the radio channel on a soft rock station.

Coldness more bitter than the snow outside cut through Trent. Why the fuck had he ever let Barry talk him into this? The entire endeavor was doomed to fail. Trent’s dad didn’t want to talk through their shit any more than Trent did.

“Fine,” he said, doing his best to keep his hurt hidden. “I’ll just take him back.”

He made to turn when his dad slammed the coffee cup down so hard on the glass counter Trent thought it might crack. It didn’t. But his dad’s expression was still angry. “You can’t take him back. Just…leave him here.” His eyes flicked over the dog. “Merlin,” he said, like he was trying it out.

Trent licked his lips. He was almost certain his dad would love the puppy – Merlin – if he just gave him a chance. If Trent left them alone and his dad could forget where the dog had come from. He had adored his St. Bernards all his life.

So he carefully placed Merlin on the carpet and offered the leash to his dad over the counter top. His dad narrowed his eyes at it, then managed to take the end without making skin contact with Trent.

Trent shoved his hands in his pockets and walked as fast as he could back out of the shop. He paused to grab the handles of his two suitcases again, maneuvering them so he could wheel them away toward the exit that would lead to his cabin.

He thought he might have heard a small ‘thank you’ as he left. But he was probably imagining it.