Chapter Eighteen
Cruella Breville
Colton
I’m nearly thirty-one years old and I have no idea how to knot my own tie. Is that a prerequisite for this job? If it isn’t, I feel like it should be.
I regret getting so few polos, because then I wouldn’t have this problem in the first place. Problem being that I’m standing in my room while my sister knots my tie for me and nearly chokes me in the process.
Dramatic?
Maybe. Maybe not.
“Colton,” Indi scolds, tugging harder on the satiny material. “Hold still, would you? You’re worse than Milo.”
“I’m sorry I’m not used to someone trying to strangle me on a regular basis,” I say dryly. “How can I make the process easier for you? Should I just yank the tie for myself? Is there a questionnaire I could’ve filled out to share my preferences for how to be choked?”
The annoyed set of her mouth tells me she doesn’t find me very funny.
“Okay.” She gives it one more tug and steps back, head tilted. “You know, Casanova, you look pretty decent. I might have to start calling you Suit Daddy if you stick with it.”
My head rears back, more than a little horrified. “Indi, no.”
“You’re wearing a suit and you’re a temporary daddy.” One dark blonde brow arches. “Is that not true?”
I decide not to answer and nudge her toward the door. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
Indi wiggles her brows much too suggestively for my liking. “Do you want me to send Cheyenne in? I can unknot your tie so she can retie it. I bet she’ll be faster than you were with her dress last week.” She pauses, and now she looks horrified. Or disgusted. “Do you think she tied that sleazeball husband’s tie?”
Horrified and disgusted, then.
“I don’t know.” I don’t want to think about it. Learning about Cheyenne’s pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage is enough to process, but something tells me she hasn’t fully confided in me. It rubs me the wrong way. “ You go downstairs to help Cheyenne with Milo’s breakfast.”
On her way out the door, she says, “I’ll send her up, Suit Daddy.”
I toss a pair of folded dress socks at her, but it’s too late. She ducks out of the way, her laughter lingering in the hall after she’s gone downstairs.
I take a moment to pause and study myself in the mirror after I tie my shoes. The man staring at me from the gold-rimmed mirror on the dresser is a man I don’t recognize. He has my face and my slightly lopsided ears, my beard and the scar beside my lip. But the man in the reflection wears a tailored, light blue suit and starched white dress shirt. A brown leather belt is looped around his waist to match his dress shoes.
Milo’s tie, navy with white sailboats and spoked ship wheels, knotted expertly at his neck.
How can it be that he doesn’t feel like a stranger even though I don’t recognize him? He feels almost as right as Milo’s infectious laughter drifting up the stairs, followed closely by Cheyenne and Indi’s giggles. As right as Milo falling asleep between Jordan and me on Dad’s sofa last Thursday, my right arm going numb under his weight. As right as the feel of Cheyenne’s skin under my fingertips.
I take a deep breath. In need of comic relief to ease my nerves, I send a mirror selfie to the group chat with Gran and my brothers. It’s disconcerting that they all respond before I make it through the door of my bedroom.
Gran: Good thing you’re engaged young man!!
J-Lo: Wait did you learn how to tie a tie?!
Grammy: It’ll do. The sailboats are on the nose for the project, but it’ll do.
J-Lo: This—!—is an exclamation mark Grammy! You should consider trying them!
Grammy: No.
Gran: Have you found the emotions yet?
Me: *emojis*
My phone buzzes when I slip it in my pocket, but I ignore the texts and head downstairs. I had breakfast with Cheyenne an hour ago—a habit we’ve fallen into unintentionally over the last few weeks. She eats from a coffee mug like her mother always did, I eat from a chipped ceramic bowl, and we don’t talk much. We just sit with each other at the deck table while Mother Nature blushes pink in the eastern sky.
It’s weird to look forward to something so simple.
I turn the corner into the kitchen just as Cheyenne comes for the hallway. She runs into me, hands softening the collision when they land on my chest, and a soft oof falls from her lips. I steady her by the shoulders instinctively, but she’s not the one with flushed cheeks when she eases away.
I am.
Her eyes drop to the tips of my brown dress shoes and travel slowly back up to my face. And by slowly, I mean like an elderly couple taking the ’65 Ford out on a Sunday drive. Hypothetically, I would pass those people. Right now, I don’t need fast. I want Cheyenne’s eyes on me forever.
“The word I think you’re looking for, Chey, is meh, ” Indi says. “M-E-H. Say it with me now. Meh.”
Moment shattered, I shoot my sister a glare. She only shrugs innocently. Her hip is propped against the countertop while she fills a red sippy cup with water, and I lift my brow. “I see you’ve got your water jug for the day. Try not to overdo it.”
“And I see you have the perfect knot for your tie,” Indi returns. “Since we’re learning phrases, here’s one: thank you . If you want it to be really effective, say, Thank you, Indi, for tying my tie! You’re my favorite sister!”
Cheyenne muffles a laugh and disappears down the hall with Milo’s stained shirt. I drape my suit jacket over a barstool before lifting a shirtless Milo from his own stool. He has a milk mustache, and based on his blue tongue, he talked someone into Lucky Charms this morning.
“Mornin’, Captain,” I say cheerfully.
“Do you have to go?” he asks, head tilted.
“I do, but I’ll be back for supper. I promise. Hey, you got something right here.” He glances down when I poke his chest and laughs when I swipe up at his nose. “Gotcha!”
Milo gasps when he notices my tie. “It’s my tie! Did Annie get it for you?”
“She did not. I got one for myself and one for you,” I tell him. “Thought we could wear them to Graham and Ember’s wedding.”
His eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really.”
Indi clears her throat and, sippy cup in hand, gestures from Milo to the table. A lightbulb must flicker on, because he scrambles down from my arms. Cheyenne reminds him not to run in the house when she comes up behind me. On her way to the sink, she touches my arm lightly. Habitually, most likely, but I feel the touch all the way to my toes.
I wonder if Dad wanted mornings like this—Mom, barefoot in her pajamas, laughing as Dad twirls her around the kitchen. Jordan having an in-depth conversation with Gran about something much too advanced for his age. Graham intently reading the Nutrition Facts on the Lucky Charms box and picking out the marshmallows from his bowl. Me running around the table in nothing but my swim trunks, being purposely evasive of breakfast when the lake is right there for swimming.
Milo grins boyishly as he approaches, hands behind his back. “You gotta close your eyes!”
“And put your hands out,” Cheyenne adds.
“While you’re at it,” Indi says, “do the Hokey Pokey.”
Obediently, I do as told—minus the Hokey Pokey. I’ll reserve that for Graham and Ember’s upcoming wedding. Or maybe evenings in the sunroom with Cheyenne, golden sun filtering through the otherwise opaque clouds, though those dances tend to be less Hokey Pokey and more slow dancing.
“Okay,” I say, wiggling my fingertips. “I’m ready.”
Something small is placed in my palm. I wait until Milo instructs me to open my eyes, and I swallow hard. It’s a painted rock. Half is blue, half is yellow, and on one side it has C + M on it. On the other, a lopsided heart painted in bright red.
Emotion tangles in my throat.
“It’s a good luck rock,” Milo explains. He twists nervously from side to side and stares up at me questioningly. “Do you like it? I used ta make them with my mom before she left.”
Indi stills completely at the sink. Cheyenne lifts her focus from wiping up Milo’s mess on the island. This is the first time Milo’s mentioned our mother since I met him. It should be normal to talk about her, but I can’t form an appropriate response.
I find a nonverbal one instead. I kneel on the hardwood floor, close my fingers around the rock, and fold Milo into my arms. I close my eyes and wonder how I’ll ever say goodbye to this boy come August. When he fidgets, I lean back to look him directly in the eye.
“I love it, Milo.” I love you . “Thank you.”
Del Ray Development is headquartered on the thirty-first floor of a sleek downtown Omaha high rise. I’ve been there before, but not in my adult life. The last place I’ve ever wanted to be is the place that stole my dad from my childhood and teenage years.
In fewer words, I’ve never seen this version of the company.
Marble floors, dark wooden accents, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking city streets, and frosted glass doors separating offices. A circular receptionist desk for the most chipper Asian woman I’ve ever met, and a conference room that’s bigger than most hotel rooms.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s also sheer nepotism.
“It is not,” Graham says when I tell him that. Ironically, we’re standing in the unoccupied office that sits directly beside his. I could toss paper airplanes at the pane of glass separating them from my spinning desk chair. “It’s simply family privilege.”
“Hey, Siri.” I hold my phone up between us, brows lifted in challenge. “What is the definition of nepotism?”
“Nepotism is the practice among those with power or influence of favoring relatives—”
Graham turns my phone off, silencing the automated voice. “Not when we created the position for you.”
“Hey, Si—”
“Don’t.” Graham glares at me. If we weren’t brothers, it might be intimidating since he’s all buttoned up in a suit and tie.
As it is, we are brothers. I make a goofy face and pinch his cheek. “You’re just so cute when you go all alpha on me, Grammy. It’s quite unprofessional of you, though.”
He does not look impressed. He pivots on his dress shoe heel and walks out of the office. I have no idea what to do, so I follow him. Past his bland office, past the glowing receptionist desk, past a closed door with Samuel Del Ray, President and CEO engraved on a gold plate. Graham has one just like it with his name and Vice President.
I make a mental note to order a custom one that says Colton Del Ray, Resident Funny Business Expert . My brother will love me for that one.
“Since I know you can’t function without food, here’s the break room.” Graham flicks a light switch on and gestures to the room. Moderately comfortable looking white sofas with stainless steel legs sit on top of—you guessed it—white rugs. “Pretty self-explanatory. Coffee maker, snacks in the cupboard, etcetera. Grab something if you want it before the team meeting.” He glances at his Apple watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes. I trust you can find your way back to the conference room when you’re done?”
I purse my lips. “I might get lost since everything is the same color. I’ll probably end up in the elevator since it’s silver, not white.”
Graham just shakes his head and heads down the hallway, but I see the corners of his mouth curl. If I do nothing else notable today, I’ll have accomplished that.
I turn to the coffee station. Of course, it’s not a regular Keurig where you pop a pod in it, press the button, and it does the heavy lifting for you. Graham left me with one of those fancy ones that has all the shiny handles and confusing buttons. I bet it also promises to turn the average Joe into a barista overnight.
“Well,” I say, slightly under my breath, “it can’t be that hard.”
I place a plain white mug on the tray and look at the instructions taped to the side of the Breville. It’s already loaded with coffee beans, so I press the power button. I grind a serving, tamp them down, place the tiny silver basket in its spot, and tap the one cup option.
Easy enough.
Except that, somehow, it isn’t.
The machine sputters to life, but instead of dripping into the cup, it bursts at me . I fling my tie over my shoulder. I’m not wearing my suit jacket, but unfortunately for the dress shirt, it’s game over. Coffee bleeds through the stark white material, seeping deeply into the polyester. When it reaches my skin, I arch my back with a hiss.
Just as my dad walks across the hall from his office.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say reflexively.
It is, in fact, exactly what it looks like.
He lifts one graying brow. “It’s not?”
“No.” Yes . “I, uh… I kind of, sort of, lost to the Breville—No.” I hold up my hand, palm out. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. This stuff freaking burns.”
Dad only smiles and claps me on the shoulder; a gesture that makes me stand ramrod straight. “My boy, I do believe your brother set you up. There’s a reason that machine is known as Cruella Breville around here.” He moves around me, opens a tall cupboard, and pulls out the plainest black Keurig you could find. “Here’s the one to use if you want a decent cup of coffee that you don’t end up wearing.”
I open my mouth to respond, but I’m still trying to process the last sixty seconds. He pauses in the doorway.
“Oh, and Colton?”
I look at him blankly.
“Welcome to the team.” He dips his chin, taps the doorframe twice, and disappears down the hall.
He doesn’t get far. The peppy receptionist, Caroline, stops him in the hall, and he places a gentle hand on her shoulder. I notice her swollen belly for the first time when he shifts slightly, and my mouth is suddenly dry.
All I can do is stand and stare. My stained shirt presses uncomfortably into my navel, my tie is still flung haphazardly over my shoulder, and behind me, Cruella Breville still sputters ominously. Three big thoughts, among hundreds of tinier ones, vie for my full attention.
Cheyenne had been pregnant, and the realization that she nearly had another man’s child hit me like a freight train when I set my hand on her stomach last week.
My no-nonsense little brother had not only set me up to fail, but also to make me laugh on my first day at a job I’m clueless about.
And my dad, who has never welcomed me onto any team before, squeezed my shoulder.
I swallow hard. Dad gestures another woman over—tall, blonde, wearing a bold blue pantsuit and a sizable diamond ring. He leans down to tell Caroline something and pulls his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket as the tall woman ushers Caroline down the hall. Dad hovers close behind, phone pressed to his ear, shooing curious onlookers back into offices.
This is the man I wanted as my father. The reason for my Dad Box , with the Babe Ruth baseball card and the expired Ovaltine and the engraved family name cuff links. He’s been here, at his own form of the rodeo, so to speak. He knows he’s good at it, and to an extent, he can control it.
His rosin rope and spurs are ties and cuff links. His eight second ride is a new client signing the dotted line. His standing ovation is Forbes naming Del Ray Development as one of the most successful companies in the world. His lonely hotel room at the end of the day is a much larger, much emptier house filled with a lifetime of memories.
But his rodeo isn’t his life anymore, it’s a fragment of it. He helps Graham expand the company, but he also just spends quality time with Graham and Ember. He talks to Jordan openly, and he sets his novel aside to play a game when Jolene asks him to. He’s accepted the daughter he didn’t know he had like he’s known her all her life, and he steals kisses with Hazel when they think no one is watching them.
By comparison—because any sane person would say comparison is the way to life!—I’ve done very little. I’ve agreed to lay low in my profession, become temporary guardian of my half-brother, and become fake engaged to my best friend, yes. But those things were defined for me.
Dad’s changes have required massive effort.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Dragging my focus from the now-empty hall, I pull it out to look at the text.
Cheyenne: *selfie of Milo and Cheyenne sitting on the dock with Indi in the background*
Cheyenne: Good luck from us toda y ! We believe in you!
I rub absently at my chest. I reply with a heart and a sailboat, and I take a deep breath. In for six seconds, out for eight. I blot my shirt with recycled paper napkins, wipe the counter clean, and straighten my shoulders before heading for the conference room.
They say nothing changes if nothing changes. Today, though, I’m going to do it. I don’t know how, and I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it.
But I am going to make changes, and it starts by trying something new. Even if it means wearing a coffee-stained dress shirt in a room of Armani bigwigs, reaching into my pocket to touch my Lucky Rock from Milo, and having drifted so far from my comfort zone that I might never find it again.