Chapter Twelve #2
He's steadier than the last time I saw him, but still slower than he used to be. His right side drags a little. His grip on the door frame is tighter than it needs to be. But he's here. He's standing.
"Dad."
His face lights when he sees me.
"Sweetheart."
The word nearly undoes me on the spot.
I'm halfway to him before Everett reaches the van and offers his hand to my father while the therapist gets out his walker from the back.
"Mr. Taylor," Everett says. "It's good to finally meet you."
My father looks at him, then takes the hand.
The handshake is brief but firm.
"Everett Kauffman... I've heard a lot about you."
I hold my breath and wish I hadn't told my father all the things that I had about Everett. Especially the bad ones.
Everett sends a knowing smirk in my direction. I'm sure he can guess how much I've vented to my father.
"I'm sure her interpretation was accurate, sir. But I can promise you that I have every intention of taking good care of her now."
"And I'm sure you’ll do right by her? She’s special, you know."
"I know she is. And I will sir."
My father looks at Everett the way he used to look at boys who showed up to take me to prom—like he's running a background check with his eyes and the results aren't in yet.
"Aria tells me you own a hockey team," he says.
"The Hawkeyes, yes sir."
"I used to play hockey back in middle school. I played defense and liked checking kids into the boards. I never did play a whole game. I spent too much time in the sin bin," He says with a teasing smile. "Though I doubt I’ll be able to play again."
Everett doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh politely. Doesn't do any of the things people usually do when my father references his condition.
He just nods. "Nonsense. We should get out there and maybe you can teach our guys a thing or two. Got any tips on hooking without getting caught by the refs?"
My father pulls back to look at Everett a little closer, as if not expecting that from a man in a tailored suit.
"I like him," my father looks over at me as the physical therapist comes around with his walker. "He's funnier than you said."
"I never said he was funny."
"Exactly." He pats Everett's arm. "She complained about you nonstop. That's how I knew."
Everett's brow lifts in my direction. "Knew what?"
"That you were important. It’s always the one you never expect."
I am going to die right here on this driveway.
"Dad—"
Everett's eyes find mine for just a moment and then he glances away.
"A bruise fades," my father says, already moving past me toward the front door with the confidence of a man who has decided this is his house now. "A splinter keeps reminding you it's there."
Everett looks at me and then back at my father.
"Splinter?" Everett asks.
"Don't ask," I tell him.
"You compared me to a splinter?"
I shake my head. "Can we please go inside?"
His mouth does the thing. The almost-smile. The one that's starting to feel like it belongs to me.
"After you," he says. "But don’t get too close. I might wedge under your skin."
Too late, I want to say.
Everly finds my father within thirty seconds of him walking through the door and adopts him like he's a golden retriever she's been waiting for all her life.
"Mr. Taylor, I'm Everly. I'm the one who planned all of this." She gestures grandly at the tent, the flowers, the string lights threading through the trees beyond the terrace. "And I'm the one who's going to make sure your daughter looks like a queen tomorrow."
My father takes her hand and holds it between both of his. "If you're half as good at planning weddings as you are at introductions, I'm not worried."
Everly beams. I can practically see the adoption papers being filed in her head.
Penelope shows up with her husband Slade Matthews, center and captain of the Hawkeyes team. She agreed to be my maid of honor though she was shocked when I told her that I was getting married so quickly.
We file out onto the lawn where the chairs are set in rows and the arch stands draped in white and green against the dark water beyond.
Penelope comes to stand next to me. "I know you were going to try to get your job back but this seems a little beyond the call of duty. You just touch your nose twice if you want to bail. I’ve got a getaway car and Slade missed his calling in NASCAR. You’d make his day."
"I’m okay, but thank you for being here with me," I tell her.
"I wouldn’t miss it. I just can’t believe I didn’t see this one coming. My matchmaking skill in the Hawkeyes community needs a tune up."
"Don’t be hard on yourself," I laugh. "You’ll get the next one."
Then the coordinator walks Everett, Damien and Levi to the front. They stand under the arch—Everett centered, Damien beside him as his best man, and Levi next to him. Even in slacks and a button up with rolled-sleeves, Everett commands the entire space.
I watch as his posture stiffens while Penelope and Everly walk down next, like he's bracing for something he can feel coming. We both know what it is.
"All right, Aria," the coordinator says. "Mr. Taylor, whenever you're ready."
My father rises from the chair Colston placed for him at the end of the aisle. My father towers over me at over six feet as he straightens his jacket. He offers me his arm and I take it, feeling like a little girl all over again, needing my dad to do this with me.
We walk, taking it slow on the grass. Slower than a normal walk, because his right side is still unreliable and he compensates with carefully measured steps.
I match his pace without thinking about it—the way I've matched it at Brookhaven a hundred times, in hallways and therapy rooms and the garden where he likes to sit on warm days.
But this isn't a hallway. This is an aisle.
And at the end of it, Everett Kauffman is watching us.
My father's grip on my arm tightens. Not because he's struggling, because he knows what this means.
"Steady, sweetheart," he murmurs. "We're almost there."
We reach the arch. The coordinator explains where I'll stand, where my father will kiss my cheek, where Everett will step forward to take my hand.
My father turns to me. His eyes are wet but his voice is strong.
"I'm going to embarrass you tomorrow," he warns. "I'm going to cry."
"You’re not going to embarrass me. I promise."
"And I'm going to tell everyone who'll listen that my daughter is the bravest woman I've ever known. After your mother."
I can't speak. If I open my mouth, I will break apart in front of every Kauffman on this lawn. My mother won’t be here today and he and I both know that.
He pats my cheek the way he always has since I was a little girl, gentle, rough-handed, certain.
Then he turns to Everett.
"Take care of her."
Everett meets his eyes. Whatever he sees there makes his expression shift into something I haven't seen before. He’s not the CEO or the Tin Man today. He’s a version of himself that I’m not sure if I’ve met before.
"Yes sir."
My father nods once, satisfied.
Then he leans toward Everett and says, quietly enough that only the three of us hear it, "She likes four sugars and enough cream to turn it the color of a sandy beach… just in case you were wondering."
Everett blinks.
I cover my face with my free hand, as my father offers my other hand to Everett. He takes it and leads me up the two steps to the top of the stage Everly insisted on.
"I'm guessing he knows about the coffee?" Everett asks me.
"I told him about everything."
"Everything?"
His voice drops low enough that only I hear it. "Does he know that you crawled into my lap and straddled me while you offered yourself up to be my wife?"
My cheeks go hot. Every inch of them.
"Okay," I manage. "Maybe not everything."
Everett tries to hide a smirk—this one darker and warmer than usual. The kind that has heat racing down my neck now too.
My father, mercifully oblivious, pats Everett's arm. "I’ll hand it to you Everett. You just made the best decision of your life marrying my daughter."
Then he turns and carefully takes a seat on my side of the aisle.
The coordinator walks us through the rest—the recessional, the timing, where the photographer will stand—and then Everly calls it.
"That's a wrap. Everyone get some sleep." She points at me. "You—my house, nine AM. Hair, makeup, no arguments. I have a timeline and I will not be questioned." Then she turns to the table of brothers. "Boys—be ready by four for pictures. No later."
Levi salutes her. Colston claps Everett on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. Archer disappears into the trees like smoke.
Penelope pulls me in for a hug. "I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow. Just let me know if you need anything."
"I will," I tell her with a squeeze. "Thank you for coming."
"I wouldn’t miss it."
She and Slade make their way back to their car, hand in hand and then I feel Everett at my side, his hands in his pockets.
"It’s going to be fine. We just need to convince the trustees tomorrow."
"I know it will be," I say. "And thank you… for bringing my father out here today."
He stares out with me as cars pull out and then leave.
"Come on. You need a tour of the house. It’s yours now too for the next year."
Inside, the cleaning staff moves quietly through the main rooms for another twenty minutes, clearing plates and folding linens and disappearing through the back like ghosts until we’re completely alone.
Everett loosens his tie. Rolls his sleeves to his forearms. Pours himself two fingers of something amber and leans against the kitchen island.
I should go upstairs, change and go to sleep.
Instead I drift through the living room, looking at his shelves now that no one is watching me look.
The books are real. The photo frames aren't staged. The art is too restrained to be decorative in the usual billionaire way. Everything feels chosen and Everett is too particular to let anyone make those decisions for him.
My eyes catch on a smaller silver frame half-hidden behind a row of books. A woman and a little boy.
She's beautiful in a hard, polished way. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. A smile that looks like it was put on for the camera and removed the second it was done.
The boy beside her is maybe eight, and a neat shirt, perfectly combed hair. Standing straight without a smile as if he’s not sure if he is supposed to.
"That's your mother," I say.
Everett doesn't move from the island.
"Yes."
I pick up the frame carefully.
"You look like her."
"I've been told."
I turn to face him.
He's watching me from across the room, glass in hand, expression unreadable in the low light.
"You don't have any other photos of her," I say, glancing around the room in case I missed something.
"No."
"But you kept this one? Is she coming tomorrow?"
"I didn’t invite her."
He looks at the glass in his hand, turning it once, the amber swirling around the glass and catching the light.
"Is there a reason why you didn’t?" I ask.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead his eyes stay on his drink as if he’s calculating how much he should tell me. How much he should let me in. How much explanation of his life his soon-to-be fake wife deserves to know.
"She got a payout," he says. "When the trust finalized. Multi-millions for raising me through college. That was supposed to be the end of it."
"Have you spoken to her since?"
He nods. "She called every month after. Not to ask how I was. Not to ask about the company. Not to ask whether I was sleeping or eating or managing." His jaw tightens as if the memory is painful. "To tell me my father was a stingy billionaire and she deserved more money."
I don't breathe.
"Every call was the same," he says. "What she was owed. What she sacrificed. What she gave up." He sets the glass down. "She never once asked me a single question about my life."
The room feels cold all of the sudden and the distance between us feels too far. I can’t imagine having a mother who only acted as a surrogate.
"She saw me as a paycheck," he says. "The same way she saw my father.
A transaction that didn't pay out the way she planned though the contract was black and white.
She was given a million dollar a year stipend that afforded every luxury item she wanted to keep up the Kauffman lifestyle, and a million dollar a year bonus up to the year I graduated. "
I set the frame back down very carefully.
"My mother drove through a storm to pick me up from an art show," I say quietly. "And your mother called to complain about her twenty-two million dollar bonus."
His eyes lift to mine and he walks toward me.
"I guess we both lost our mothers," I say. "Just in different ways."
He reaches past me for the frame, his arm brushing mine, and picks it up. His eyes glance over it for a long moment. Then he sets it face down on the shelf.
"Come on," he says. "We should get you to bed. The wedding is tomorrow and we could both use some sleep."
As if there is any way that I’ll fall asleep the night before I marry Everett Kauffman.
Neither of us says it. We don't have to. Sleep isn’t coming for either of us tonight.
"Right," I say. "Good idea."
I force a small smile. "At least I don't really have to pack. Everly had Lana shop for me."
He raises an eyebrow. "She packed for you?"
"Something like that. Though I should probably make sure she packed me any real clothes. She joked that she told Lana to only pack lingerie."
Everett chokes on his whiskey. An involuntary cough that he tries to swallow back and doesn't quite manage.
He sets the glass down and clears his throat.
"Sorry," he says. "Went down wrong."
His ears are pink. This damn man can stare down a boardroom full of executives without blinking, but the word lingerie takes him out at the knees.
If I'm being honest, I kind of love that. I decide, kindly, not to mention it.
"Goodnight, Everett."
He sets the glass down with exaggerated care, and doesn't look at me when he does it.
"Goodnight, Aria."
I make it halfway up the stairs before his voice catches me.
"Aria."
I turn.
He's still standing at the island, one hand flat on the marble, the other in his pocket. The low light does something unfair to his jaw. To his forearms. To the whole damn picture of him standing in his kitchen looking too good to be marrying tomorrow as my fake husband.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I hope she packed real clothes… For both our sakes."
My pulse kicks so hard I feel it in my throat.
I don't trust myself to answer back or to ask for him to elaborate. So I turn and walk to the guest room and close the door behind me and lean against it until my breathing does something closer to normal.
The wedding is tomorrow.
I'm marrying that man.
And I'm starting to think the consummation clause might not be the problem Christian made it sound like.