Chapter Three

ZANE

A text exchange between Zane and Amelia, Wednesday, September 11, 9:17 a.m.

Amelia: Zane, you HAVE to go with Macey! Please!

Amelia: Seriously, please go with her. I’d owe you so big! Whatever you want!

Amelia: PLEASE

Zane: Stop texting me

Amelia: PLEASE

Zane: Blocking you in 3 . . . 2 . . .

I LOOK DOWN AT MY smartwatch, which has just vibrated against my wrist, letting me know that my heart rate is above normal. I should have never turned that feature on. It started buzzing on Monday, when I realized just how badly I’d screwed up, and two days later, I’m still getting warnings.

“Zane,” my dad says, a large cherrywood desk separating us. It’s the second time he’s said my name—or maybe it’s the third. The many thoughts weaving in and out of my brain are making it hard to stay focused.

“I ... don’t know,” I finally say, voicing the loudest thought currently swirling around in my brain. I don’t know.

The words offer zero comfort, and my smartwatch vibrates again. The only other time it does this is when I’m watching the Dallas Cowboys play. Until right now, they’ve put more pressure on my heart than this job has. I really need to find a new team to root for.

“Well,” Warren Porter says on an exhale, leaning back so both arms rest on the large brown leather chair he’s sitting in. The lines between his eyes are etched deeper right now, making him look older than his fifty-five years. “That’s something you’re probably going to want to figure out.”

“I know,” I say. But what is it that I need to figure out? Whether I want to run a multimillion-dollar company my great-grandfather started? I thought I did. I’ve basically been raised to take the helm since I was young, back when my dad would take me to visit the quarry to watch the massive machinery at work. I loved seeing the cranes lifting enormous stone blocks, then seeing them transformed into something useful, and knowing that someday I would be in charge of it all.

But right now, it all feels like too much. Maybe it’s because I made a giant mistake—tens of thousands of dollars’ worth. And if it’s not fixed, those tens of thousands could turn into hundreds of thousands. The problem is, I don’t know how to fix it. When I signed the contract for Foothills Stoneworks, my family’s company, to provide all the interior and exterior stone materials for the luxury condominium buildings in Folsom with Summit Ridge Developments, I thought I was doing what was best for the company. The lawyers warned me about the clause in the contract stating we’d face penalties for delays, but I was sure we could pull it off. I didn’t anticipate the material shortage, and now, because of my carelessness—or foolishness, naivety, whatever you want to call it—we’re looking at daily penalties. Penalties that could hurt the company that’s been in my family for generations.

Now my dad’s asking if this job is really something I want to do, and honestly, how could he not? I was so confident—overconfident, even—just assuming I knew what was best without thinking through the risks. This isn’t a game, and I’m realizing the hard way that running a company isn’t just about signing big contracts and celebrating wins. It’s about making the right choices for everyone involved, even when things get complicated. And now I’ve put us in a position no amount of ambition can fix.

I feel like I’ve failed and am questioning my place here, which is scary because I’ve never considered any other path. I studied business at school, worked summers at the family company—this has always been the plan. I’ve never thought about doing anything else because this is what I was born to do. Literally. But now, sitting across from my dad in this office, the space that’s supposed to be mine one day, with all the framed awards and pictures of my heritage on the walls, I’m realizing I’m not sure what I want.

My watch vibrates again. I take a steadying breath to try and calm my racing heart.

“I think you need to take some time off,” my dad says, and my eyes shoot up from my hands, which I was staring at as they twiddled in my lap.

“What?” I ask him.

“I think you need a break,” he says. “Some time to figure this out. Whether or not you want to be here, Son.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, with really no intention of taking any time. That seems counterintuitive. “But first I need to fix the mess I got us into.”

I’m not exactly sure how I’ll do that. Beg them to let me out of the contract? Plead? Offer up my firstborn child—which, considering that I don’t have kids, or any on the way or even close, since I haven’t been on a date in a long time, would be an empty promise. Plus, this hypothetical child of mine will probably be expected to run this company someday. If Foothills still exists by then. If I haven’t ruined it before even fully taking over.

My dad shakes his head. “I can handle that. I have the reputation and the history with these companies—I can deal with it.”

“Dad, this was my mistake,” I tell him. “I feel like I need to be the one to fix it.”

He shakes his head again. “What I think you need is a break.” I reach up and rub my temples. “When’s the last time you took a vacation?” he asks.

I shrug my shoulder. “I don’t know. Turks and Caicos?”

“That was four years ago,” he says, his brows pulled downward.

Has it really been that long? I only remember that I didn’t want to go. I wanted to work and keep learning the ins and outs of a company that has been passed down through three generations. To prove to everyone else and myself that I’d be capable of eventually running this organization. But my parents insisted we go, since we hadn’t spent much time together.

“You have to take more breaks, Son,” my dad says. “This is how mistakes are made, working yourself to the bone.”

No, mistakes happen when you get cocky, thinking you’ve got everything handled, only to find out ... you don’t. And then your watch keeps buzzing, reminding you that your heart rate is too high. Maybe I should take this stupid thing off. It’s not like I need a reminder—I can feel my heart pounding well enough on my own.

“What about spending time with friends? When’s the last time you did that?”

“Uh,” I start, but then stop because I can’t think of the last time. The truth is, I’ve turned my friends down so many times that they stopped asking me to hang out.

“And dating?” he asks me, raising one eyebrow dramatically. “When’s the last time you did that?”

I pull my chin inward, my brows furrowing. Because that’s not a normal inquiry from my dad. “Did Mom put you up to that?”

He smiles. “She may have asked.”

My dating life is definitely the number one thing on my mom’s mind. She’s backed off Amelia since she’s been seeing that tool, Garrett. Unfortunately, that makes me the sole focus of Beth Porter’s scheming. She hasn’t been outright asking me about it lately, since I asked her to stop. Now I see she’s got my dad doing her dirty work.

I look down at my hands. “Yeah, there’s not much of that happening. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Mom.” He chuckles at that, and I know very well he will tell her every part of this conversation.

It’s not like I’ve got all this time on my hands to meet someone. Plus, what could I possibly offer when I have dedicated all my time and energy to learning how to run this company and becoming the person my dad would want to hand it over to when he retires?

Maybe I do need a break.

“I’ll take some time off,” I tell him, “as soon as I fix this mess I got us into.” I look at the man across from me, the one who raised me, who’s been a constant and a guide throughout my life, and watch him shake his head.

It reminds me of the time he taught me to drive the forklift at the quarry. I hopped on, ready to impress him, but he made me get off and walk around it first, checking every tire, every latch. “You don’t operate anything you haven’t inspected,” he said, watching me with that same look he’s giving me now. Back then, I thought he was just being overcautious, but now I see his point. It was never about the forklift. It was about handling things the right way, not just rushing in and hoping for the best.

Apparently, I didn’t learn a thing, because I rushed right into that contract, blinded by dollar signs and the promise of a few pats on the back. Sure, there was plenty of praise at first, but now? Just silence and whispers behind my back. Then again, maybe I’m just being paranoid—because, thanks to my dad, few people know about my blunder, but it’s hard not to think there’s been a shift.

“What you need to do is take some time off now and let me handle it,” my dad says.

“I feel like that will look bad to everyone else out there,” I say, pointing toward the door to the offices where the leadership team works. To where I work. I’m pretty sure there are at least a couple of people who think they could take on the CEO position better than I could, that it’s unfair that I’m going to be handed this company on a silver platter. But I’ve never treated it like that. I knew I’d need to work hard to prove to my dad and myself that I could do this. Until recently, I thought I could. And now ... I’m not so sure.

“I’ll handle that too,” he says.

“I don’t need everyone in this company thinking that anytime I mess up, my dad is going to bail me out. And I also don’t need them thinking that every time we hit a problem, I question whether I should be in charge.”

Even if right now I am questioning it. But it’s not because I don’t want to do it—I just don’t know if I’m capable. That’s the crux of it. Am I capable of running this company?

He waves my worries away with a hand. “I’ll deal with it. Your reputation is as important to me as it is to you.”

As it stands, my dad has taken the fall for the contract with Summit Ridge, and the payment delays, saying that he was the one that gave the go-ahead. Despite it being all me.

“I don’t really understand how taking some time off is going to help.”

“Because you need time to think,” he says. “And also, because I did the same thing once upon a time.”

My eyes go wide at this declaration. “You made a mistake?”

He scoffs at that. “A huge one. Cost us a lot of money and really made me question my place here,” he says. “And I’ve made plenty of others since then. Kind of the nature of the beast with this company. Nothing is set in stone.” He gives me a wink. It’s sort of a family joke, to use stone or granite puns—and it makes me smile every time. Even right now, with this existential crisis looming.

“And then Grandpa told you to take some time off?” I ask, needing more details.

He nods. “Yep. Like you, I wondered if this was what I wanted to do. So, my dad told me to take some time and figure it out. And that’s what I did.” He holds his hands out toward his office, telling me without words that it all worked out.

The feeling that I’m alone in this, that I’m the only Porter to screw up and then question my role here, wanes knowing the great Warren Porter felt uncertain about his place in the company once upon a time. And look at him now. The people who work here respect my dad immensely, and some of them have been around since he took over as CEO. Employees of Foothills Stoneworks tend to stay. It’s a great place to work, mostly because my dad and the Porters before him always put people before projects.

Like what my dad is doing for me right now.

“I took some time—about a week,” he says, “went down to Miami, and laid out my options with some buddies of mine. When I came back, I knew what I wanted to do. I told your grandfather and then walked out of his office and asked your mom out. So, you could say that break changed my life.”

I give him a closed-mouth smile. The story goes that my mom was my grandpa’s secretary and my dad had always wanted to ask her out but could never get up the nerve, and then one day, he did. I never knew the whole story until right now. Leave it to my dad to keep something like this in his back pocket in case one day I’d go through it too. To show me he got through it. He did the same when I failed my driver’s test at sixteen. He’d also failed his first time but waited to tell me on the off chance I did the same.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe a break will change the direction of my life too. Maybe it will give me some perspective. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll go on vacation and never come back, become a recluse, live in the forest, grow a beard. The possibilities are endless. Except, I’ve never been able to grow a beard.

“As your boss, I can’t force you to take time off,” he goes on. “HR would have a problem with that. But as your dad, I’m asking you to do it. Take some time and figure this out, Zane.”

We sit in silence for a moment, my thoughts swirling once again.

“Okay,” I finally tell him. “And you’re sure this won’t look bad to everyone else?” I’m having a hard time making peace with that part.

He waves my concern away. “I’ll cover it,” he says.

“And you’re sure I shouldn’t stay here and try to fix things with Summit?” I ask.

He shakes his head again. “I can handle that too. Mistakes will happen in the future, Son. I need to know that when they do, you’re okay, that you’re where you want to be.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll take some time off.”

“Take a week or even two if you need it.”

I laugh nervously. “I think a week will be enough to figure it out.” At least, I hope it’s enough.

“Go somewhere fun,” he says. “Take an actual vacation.”

I don’t see that happening. All I can picture right now is lying in my room, staring at the ceiling, hearing the soundtrack to Pride and Prejudice through the walls. Amelia and Macey watched it again last night. They were prepping for Macey’s weird trip—at least that’s what Amelia said. Macey didn’t talk to me. She hardly ever does these days. I wish I could fix that. Too bad there’s already too much in my life that needs fixing right now.

“I love you, Son,” my dad says. I feel stinging suddenly behind my eyes. Not because he doesn’t say it often—my parents are free with their “I love yous”—but because of the sincerity in his voice. Right now, he’s not only telling me he loves me—he’s showing it.

“Should I stay until the end of the day?” I ask him, my words coming out a little thick.

He scratches his chin. “Sure,” he says. “Finish out the day. But tomorrow, you’re on vacation. Take the time you need to figure this out. And I know you will.”

Dammit. The stinging gets worse. His faith in me is more than I can handle right now, especially when my own is waning.

I get up from my chair, nod, and give him a quick smile, blinking back my emotions. Then I walk out the door and down the hall to my office, where I shut the door and sit down at my desk.

I swipe a hand down my face and open up the company intranet to submit a vacation request. Under reason for leaving, I type “existential crisis” before deleting. Not sure HR would approve that.

I submit the form and then sit back in my chair. I guess I’m really doing this.

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