But if I don’t … if I walk away from his offer … WellesTech will go to the Samuelson-Barnes Group, and when my father dies, I’ll inherit their dirty fucking blood money.
The heartless bastard is strong-arming me.
“I thought maybe you could learn the ropes.” His voice is gentler now. “I can teach you everything, C.J. While I’m still able to. Who knows how much time—”
“Stop.” I interrupt him, turning to face him again. “If you think reminding me every two seconds that you’re dying is going to earn you my sympathies or respect or even my forgiveness, you’re wrong.”
His palms lift and his chin juts forward. “Fair enough.”
“I need … I need to think about this.” I squeeze my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe I’m considering this. A few minutes ago, I was prepared to say a lot of things to my old man.
This wasn’t one of them.
“If you decide to come on board, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll even hire you an assistant, a concierge of sorts to make your life easier. You’re going to be busy and you’re going to need someone to do your shopping, things like that. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
“I don’t need someone to shop for me. I like the way I dress.” I glance down at the navy waffle fabric of my Henley.
“Someone to cook for you on occasion,” he goes on.
“I order out. And I don’t like people making themselves at home in my kitchen …”
“Someone to run your errands, book your travel.”
“I have a Cessna. I don’t need to book my travel,” I say.
“She could keep you company at the very least. Assistants are there to relieve your burdens, and sometimes that includes ensuring you’re … comfortable, that all of your … needs … are met.”
“Trust me, I have no problem ensuring my needs are met.” My words snip at the disgusting creature on the other side of the room. “And I would never put an employee in a position like that.”
“Of course not,” he says a little too quickly. “You’re a good man, C.J. A better man than I ever was. Don’t think I don’t see that.”
The ass-kissing is unnecessary. He’s embarrassing himself, and he doesn’t even realize it.
My fist tightens around the doorknob that I’ve yet to release, the metal likely leaving indentations in my palm by now.
“I know I don’t deserve a thing from you.” His voice breaks, but my heart remains hardened. “I just want to leave you with the best piece of me. It’s the least I can do after … everything.”
Everything.
I love how he can encompass a lifetime of shitty fathering into a single word like everything.
I pause, all the things I want to say to him creeping up my throat, but now’s not the time.
“I have to go.” I don’t wait for him to say goodbye.
Yanking the door open, I take two steps before slamming into a pretty little brunette carrying an iced coffee from the WellesTech coffee bar.
Or … she was carrying it.
Now she’s wearing it.
All over her white blouse.
And let’s be fair here: she slammed into me. Who the hell walks that close to a door that could swing open at any given moment? Walk in the middle of the hall for fuck’s sake.
Her rosebud mouth forms an ‘o’ and her honey-colored irises flash. The now-sheer fabric clings to her skin, exposing the floral lace detail of her bra cups, and tiny rivulets of brown liquid drip slowly down her cleavage.
Coffee bath aside, I can’t help but notice she’s exceedingly attractive. What with her pointed nose, angled chin, and fan of thick, dark lashes. Her shiny dark hair stops at her shoulders, parted on one side, pressed stick-straight, and tucked behind one ear—not a single strand out of place.
I’m willing to bet she’s as uptight as she is beautiful, and I’m also willing to bet the only reason my father hired her was because she fit his very specific mold: hourglass curves, youthful glow, sparkling eyes, full lips, young enough that she hasn’t yet lost that eager-to-please mentality.
“You should really watch where you’re going,” I say before peering past her shoulder.
The young woman opens her pink lips to say something, but I walk away, stopping for a quick second at Marta’s desk to hand her a fifty-dollar note from my wallet.
“Dry cleaning,” I say before pointing behind me. “For the coffee girl.”
Marta’s reach is slow, her brows meeting in the middle. “O… okay?”
She’ll figure it out.
For now, I have to go. I’ve got my own shit to figure out.
ASSHOLE.
I hold another paper towel under the faucet before wringing it, moving onto the neon orange, citrus-scented hand soap. I work it into a lather and press it against the splatter marks on my formerly pristine white shirt before muttering a silent prayer to the Gods of Stain-Fighting Power.