Chapter 17
Sitting outside of Christophe’s for my monthly lunch with my father, I watch the freezing rain come down in sheets. One more barrier between me and him. One more reason not to be here. But I know he’s already inside, likely nursing his martini. Punctuality is another of his virtues, alongside honesty and commitment to duty.
I am not looking forward to another lunch where he tells me about how I fall short of his legacy.
I swear, he books these things on Fridays just so he can ruin one of my weekends every month. Weekends I use to enjoy the Boston nightlife or spend in the company of some woman I’ve only just met. With Dad spoiling my mood of the Friday beforehand, I’m down to three fun weekends a month.
And if he had his druthers, he’d ruin those, too.
But he is not the only reason I’m still in my car. I can fiddle with the radio and the settings until I die of thirst, but none of that will distract me from what’s really on my mind.
June Devlin is a maniac in the best way.
I sit back, trying not to get another erection just from thinking about her. It’s not fair that she has such a hold on me. I’d thought to protect her from lecherous men at the auction, but I failed at that. That woman is human Viagra. She brought out the wolf in me. I could not stop touching her, not even when I knew she was falling asleep. I had to hold her, at the very least.
It’s never been like that before for me. She is dangerous.
Not that it matters now. I don’t have her number. I purposefully did not ask for it. Best I cannot reach out to her, or she’d have me over a barrel in a week. There is nothing I wouldn’t have given that woman a week ago. Now, with time and distance between us, nothing’s changed.
In fact, it might be worse now, because I cannot stop thinking about that night.
Get it together, Anderson. Dad’s inside.
That thought is enough to quell my body’s newest addiction, it seems. I’m dressed for the weather, so stepping out of my car is little more than an inconvenience. Even so, I don’t enjoy it. Boston is wonderful for many things, but her weather is not one of them.
Once inside the restaurant, I know where to go. The same table he always takes. Right by the window, overlooking the harbor. We are such regulars that when the hostess sees who just walked in, she offers a smile and a nod, and takes my coat and hat. But I am on my own when I go to the table. I don’t blame her. Dad is not the friendliest man to staff.
The restaurant itself is lovely. He’s always had good, classic taste. White tablecloths, glass and wood in every direction. The music is present, but not overwhelming. Given the weather, though, most of the restaurant is empty. No people watching for me today. I can give Dad my full attention. Hoorah.
Before I can even sit, he begins, “Anderson. Nice of you to show up.”
I sit across from him, noting his half empty martini glass. “Nice of you to be sober.”
He ignores the slight. “Enjoying the weather?”
Wonderful. He’s stalling. “It’s my favorite.”
The server pops by for our orders and vanishes as quickly as he can. Dad notes, “The service here has fallen off a cliff.”
“You picked it.”
His eyes narrow, and it’s like being glared at by my future self. I hate how much we look alike. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was younger, and it’s uncanny. But I refuse to end up as miserable and angry as he is. No one with his kind of privilege should be this much of a crabby bastard.
“I have something important to discuss, Anderson. Can you keep your barbed tongue to yourself, or do you wish to lose another argument today?”
I clench my jaw, trying to rein myself in. “I didn’t lose the Johnson case this week. The jury was bought.”
“Keep telling yourself that. I’m sure it’ll make Mr. Johnson feel better about losing.”
“Dad—”
“Never mind all that. Johnson was a loser in the first place. You didn’t have much to work with.” He concedes with a shrug, and I’m shocked. Elliot West is not one to forgive anything. Ever. “You vanished at the Chamberlain auction last weekend. It’s all anyone is talking about. I want to know why.”
As if I’ll ever tell him. “You know how Tag is. I had to get him out of there.”
He arches his brow and sneers, before taking another swig of martini. “I don’t like that boy. Never have. You have to stop taking him to everything. A woman would be a more suitable date for important functions.”
Perhaps agreeing with him will confuse him and shorten the discussion. “Certainly.”
When he frowns, there’s no confusion. Damn. “But you’d have to commit to one first. A steady. Someone bright and beautiful to lull people into a secure feeling in their dealings with you. The right partner is essential in business, Anderson.”
Stellar. We’re having this talk. Again. “I am more than aware of your thoughts on the matter.”
“You have the reputation of a man unwilling to commit. How can clients trust you, commit to you, if you cannot commit to a woman?”
“Having a girlfriend is not representative of my capacity as a lawyer.”
“On the contrary?—”
My cocktail arrives with no fanfare from the server. He simply places it and flees. I wish I could go with him.
Dad continues as I sip my Maker’s old-fashioned, “If you have a girlfriend, it shows clients you can commit to someone, something, a plan, at the very least. How am I supposed to relinquish the firm to you if you can’t even do the most basic thing?”
“You know who I am. You know what I can do. But you’re stalling because retirement freaks you out.”
“A West does not stall. A West commits. He protects what is his. If you can’t commit to a woman, how do you expect me to think you are faithful to the firm’s employees and shareholders?”
“That is hardly the same thing.”
But he shakes his head once. “The man who sits at the top must be, above all else, reliable and trustworthy. You have proven to be neither in your affections, and that is where you play at commitment without a net. It is the easiest thing in the world to find a woman who wants to be with a wealthy, attractive man. Find one. Commit to her. Then I will reconsider my options.”
This is the same song and dance I get at least once a quarter. Every lunch is some version of a speech on inadequacies. How I lack direction or foresight or some other skill he mastered in the crib. Nothing is ever good enough for Elliot West. I’d long ago given up whining about how unfair he was—whining showed a lack of character, according to him, and I was sick of hearing how I’d never measure up.
One of the few times I’d ever received his praise was when I wanted to help Kalen Black. But he didn’t give it right away. He paid for Kalen’s tuition under the strict agreement that I’d work at the firm the entire summer and miss out on the trip I’d planned with my friends between graduation and starting college. So, I worked my ass off that whole summer without getting paid, without complaint. When my friends posted pics of the trip, I never mooned over them. Just kept my nose to the grindstone. At the end of the summer, when my debt to him was finally paid off, he said, “Good show,” and firmly shook my hand.
It was as close to a hug or a genuine compliment as I’d ever received from him, and it meant the world to me at the time.
Thinking of Kalen makes me think of June, because after last Friday, the two are inextricably linked in my mind, and now that I’ve started thinking of her, a convenient story pops into my head. “Well, on that matter, I’ve actually started seeing someone.”
A few of the lines in his face fade. His version of being surprised. “You have?”
I nod. “And it’s been getting serious.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned her before?”
“You know better than most that this is unfamiliar territory for me, Dad. I’m not exactly sure what the proper milestones are in this.”
“Very well. How did you meet?”
“At a fundraiser. Well, that’s where we re-met. I knew her back at Appleton and ran into her at Boston U, as well. But we never hit it off back then.” All true, though omitting the details may qualify that statement as a lie. It’s all he’s getting out of me, though. No sense in explaining the auction.
He smiles, and it’s such an unusual event that I’m not sure how to interpret it. “What’s her name?”
I can tell him that because I’m sure I’ve never mentioned her before. “June Devlin.”
“What clubs does she belong to?”
I almost laugh at the question. “I don’t think she does, actually.”
“Devlin … I don’t know that name. Is she from Boston originally?”
“I believe so?—”
“You believe so? You don’t know? How serious can you be if you don’t know the basics? Think, Anderson.”
I force a smile. “I know the important things about her. She likes French toast over pancakes. She laughs like there’s music inside of her. When she says my name, it’s all I can think about.”
“God help us, my son is in love.”
I laugh hard at that. “Not sure I’d go that far?—”
“It’s all over you. No wonder you were late.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Dad. I like her. A lot.” Probably more than I should. “Things are getting serious, but I’m not in danger of losing myself in this. It’s like you always say, love is a child’s emotion. It’s not for men like us.”
“No, it is not. Watch yourself with her.”
“I will?—”
“Better yet, I’ll watch you with her. Bring her to Sunday supper. Your mother will be overjoyed. She’s always going on about how you need to settle down, and this will put her mind at ease.”
Shit. This was a bad idea. Abort. “I’m not sure she will be available on such short notice.”
“Make her available, Anderson. I want to meet this June Devlin and see if my boy has lost his heart to her.”
He never calls me his boy. My mouth goes dry, and I flash back to the end of that fateful summer and that feeling of pride again. I cannot believe it. He’s actually proud of me for having a girlfriend. All this time, I had thought he used the girlfriend thing as an excuse to never retire. It’s a strange feeling to see him proud of me, but I like it. I want to keep this going, no matter the consequences. “I’ll do my best, Dad.” Now, how do I get June’s number?
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