The next she’s gone from my reach, just that easily.
I can’t shield the bite in my voice. “What about this…” I wave out over the romantic private dinner I planned for her, “is so disappointing to you?”
Eyes wide, she freezes, standing only a few feet away. “It’s”—she draws in a deep breath before speaking again—“beautiful, but it’s not my type of thing. I’m sorry if that showed on my face.”
I lift a brow at her. “A fancy, romantic dinner is not your type of thing?” Is this woman for real?
She laughs softly and gives a slight shrug. “Not really, no. But this is nice, really. Gosh, what a view.”
I don’t like anyone trying to placate me. In fact, I hate that I can’t get a read on her, almost as if she has barriers against me. The patio lights glow over her, and I become lost in her eyes. They’re so honest—they spin the world around me, making me realize I asked the wrong question. “Tell me, then: what would be the perfect date to you?”
She hesitates, her eyes searching mine. “You honestly want to know?”
“Do enlighten me.”
“Oh, well, it’s pretty simple, really.” She takes another step toward me, and the wind breezes by again, lifting her skirt slightly. Even the universe is tempting me with what I can’t have. I look at her face as she continues. “Eating burgers and fries and chatting about personal stuff is more romantic to me than fancy china and a five-course meal.”
“You want to talk about personal stuff?” I frown.
“Yup, the deep stuff.”
I arch a brow. “The deep stuff?”
“That’s right.” She closes in, staring up at me with those warm eyes. “Something personal. One question.”
My skin crawls at the direction she wants me to go. But can I release her, which I know will happen if I refuse her, I ask myself. No. Can I cross a boundary that I’ve set in place to keep a safe distance in relationships? Apparently, with her, I can, and I don’t overthink my choice. “What do you want to know?”
She pauses. “Tell me why Holt’s Day is so personal to you.”
I swallow deeply, my mental alarms screaming at me not to answer her, as they did the day of the event, though I’m not shocked she won’t let this drop. She sensed something that day. Of course she’s curious. She hasn’t been the first one, but no one has ever cleverly backed me into a corner, demanding an answer either. “Did you know that my mother died?” I ask her.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t,” she replies softly.
“She died from breast cancer when I was seven years old.” Emotion rises in my throat and I forcibly swallow again, shoving the memory away. “I don’t recall much about her anymore, just faint memories.” I pause, moving to the chair at the dining table. I take a seat, bowing my head and resting my arms on my knees. “My father raised me, after she passed away weeks after my birthday.” I look up at Allie then, seeing her listening intently to me, seeing the appreciation in her eyes for my honesty. I don’t pretend to understand why my demons interest her, but this won’t break me to tell her. “Have you heard about my father?”
She nods, clutching the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ve read a little bit about him in magazine articles.”
I’m not surprised. Everyone in San Francisco knew the name Anthony Holt. He was a self-made multimillionaire who dominated the financial industry. “I learned many lessons from my father as a child, but they were only to shape me into being a businessman.”
She moves next to me, resting against the edge of the small round table. “I’ve heard of men like him. Loveless, right?”
There in her eyes is a common understanding and something familiar, as if she’s been through what I have, but I find that hard to believe. “My father was a ruthless businessman, nothing more and nothing less, and he molded me to be like him. He was also the exact opposite of what I remember of my mother. Where he was cold and demanding, she was kind and loving.” I force the tale of my past through my tight chest and inhale, begging my lungs to expand and ease the tension. “I imagine my mother would’ve been happy with anything I did. But I learned from a young age that to succeed in my father’s eyes I needed to do better than him in business.”
Allie pauses to consider me. “Do you hate him for that?”
“No. I fel
t something worse for him. I didn’t care about him at all.” Her shoulders droop, spine bows, but I continue, as now it’s important to tell her everything. “The second I had made enough money, I bought his business and kicked him out of his own company. Then I dismantled it.”
Her nose wrinkles as she steps away from the table. Who would do that to their own father? echoes in the air between us. Well, I could and I did, and I remember the dark feeling I experienced that day. “And you know what?”
“What?” she whispers, hugging her shawl to her chest.
I shut my eyes, recalling in my mind what he said to me that day. Now you’re a man, Micah. Now you’ve made me proud. Coldness sinks into my bones when I open my eyes to Allie. “It was the only time he told me that he was proud of me.”
Her pretty, soft eyes are searching mine, and I know she’s trying to figure me out and understand how this story relates to her original question. “What happened after that day?” she finally asks.
“He died the next afternoon of a heart attack.”