Chapter 29
Dominic
I take a sip of scotch and toss it back, sucking air between my teeth with the bite.
I’m usually a bourbon man, sometimes rye.
But anytime my father calls me on short notice and says he wants to have dinner, I need scotch.
It’s not that I’m intimidated by the man.
I’m not. I haven’t been since I was a junior in high school.
No, Johnny Walker is the buffer that keeps me from punching my dad in the teeth.
“What do you think he wants?” Mila asks as I fix my tie.
“Who knows,” I tell her. “Probably to hound me about something.”
“Like what?” she asks, turning me and shoving my hands down to my sides.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Taking over your tie-tying,” she grumbles.
Honestly, it’s quite comical. She’s in cotton shorts and her ass looks great.
Of course, it always looks great. She’s also barefoot and struggling to reach my neck.
“I just don’t understand what he can possibly criticize you about,” she huffs, and it’s kind of cute.
“Oh trust me, he can always think of something,” I say, taking back over my tie situation as if I don’t wear one every day of my life. “My company isn’t number one, my building is too short, and my house isn’t high enough in the hills.”
“You better be joking,” she snaps, and I chuckle.
“I wish I was,” I say.
Mila is standing in front of me with her hip popped and her arms crossed, looking like if my dad were here right now, she’d start a fight with him. And probably win.
“If I had to guess, he’s going to give me shit about Rafe taking the governor job.
I’ll tell him I would have lost money over it, and he’ll find another way to try to make me feel inadequate, emphasis on try.
I’ll order another drink, pound it, tell him I have a meeting and have to go.
Then I’ll take my frustration out on Rafe in the ring. ”
“All of that sounds…awful,” she says with a frown.
“It is what it is,” I say, unable to resist planting a kiss on that delicious pout of hers. “I’ll be back. Try to have fun.”
“You too,” she says with fake enthusiasm, and I grin.
I meet my dad at The Bottle Shop, a steakhouse around the corner from where he lives.
While he’s not in Beverly Hills, it’s still a very well-off area.
I get there after him, as usual, not because I’m late but because my father is always early.
I don’t know if it’s to prove a point or if just doesn’t have anything better to do in his old age than sit on his mountain of money and criticize the world from his throne.
As I approach the table, he already has an appetizer ordered and his usual drink, which doesn’t surprise me. In my head, I run through all the things I think he might say based on what he usually says when I see him.
I was wondering when you’d show up.
Must be nice not having to be on time.
They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but I’m not so sure.
But as I take a seat in front of him, he doesn’t say any of those things.
There’s also a drink for me on the table, and the appetizer is rustic ricotta dip with hot honey.
It looks and smells amazing, but I know my dad is an oyster man.
This is something I would order, and the whole thing just feels suspicious.
“Son, it’s good to see you,” he tells me.
“You too,” I say, though it almost comes out like a question.
“You must be hungry. Eat. I wasn’t sure about the dip: soft cheese with spicy honey. It’s pretty damn good if I’m being honest,” he says. For a moment he just stares at me, and I know he isn’t going to go on until I take a bite, so I do. He’s right, it’s really good!
I nod as I chew, and he smiles. “Yeah? What’d I tell ya?”
“What’s this all about?” I ask. “Or did you just want to get together to expand your palate?”
Then my dad laughs. My dad. Laughs. I’m starting to wonder if the man has gone mad. If dementia has finally caught up to him.
“I wanted to talk to you about Mila, actually,” he says. For a moment, I’m not really sure how to respond.
“What about her?” I ask, using the cheese knife to spread some ricotta and a roasted cherry tomato onto a sesame toasted cracker.
Very few times in my life has my father had a decent conversation with me, let alone smiled.
When he did, there was always an angle. I’m going to have my guard up, both in front of me and in front of Mila.
“She’s really something,” he says, and my eyes flash up to him. “You know, son. When I saw the pictures of you with this girl, I was skeptical.”
“I’m sure you were,” I tell him.
“I wasn’t too keen on you fooling around for the world to see and judge you,” he says.
“You mean for the world to judge you?” I ask.
My dad bites his lip with a slow nod. “I suppose I have that coming,” he says. “But you haven’t let me finish.”
“I would have preferred not to let you start,” I say.
But my dad just smiles.
“Will you just relax and listen to me?” he asks.
“I’m trying to tell you that I was skeptical.
Until I saw the two of you together,” he goes on, and I look up at him.
“Obviously, I was suspicious. You never date. Hell, I assumed you’d never get married.
I’m sure it’s some kind of complex because you grew up without a mother. ”
I nearly drop my drink on the table. “It’s not a complex, Dad. Mom died when I was seven. A simple operation gone wrong if you don’t remember. But that has nothing to do with me not being married. Yet.”
“Sure it does,” he goes on. “But either way, I think a girl like Mila is exactly what you need. She’s smart, sexy, and sassy as hell.”
“Where exactly are you going with this, Dad?” I ask, getting a bit impatient. Because with my dad, there is always a motive to his conversations.
“I’m trying to tell you that I like her, Dominic. And that I think she might be good for you,” he says.
“Well, good. I agree. Now, is that all?” I ask.
“Nope. I also want to add that if you’re planning to marry her–” he stops and pulls a box out of his pocket. He opens it and sets it on the table between us. “You have my blessing.”
I blink as I stare down at the open box.
“That’s Mom’s ring,” I say as vague memories flash in short bursts through my head.
I may have been young, but I remember it.
A white gold ring with a round setting. It’s a beautiful double halo with a cushion-cut diamond in the center.
It’s gorgeous. I remember watching my mom take it off when she baked.
“It is,” he says. “And I want you to have it.”
I look up at him. My father never ceases to amaze me with how many ways he can annoy, irritate, or attempt to degrade me. But he is rarely capable of surprising me. His hard love is always predictable. Right now, though, he’s throwing a lot of curveballs, and I’m not sure I brought the right mitt.
“You want me to have Mom’s ring?” I ask.
“Yes. This may be hard for you to believe, Dominic, but I know a compatible couple when I see one. You two are a good match. You’d be smart to tie it down. And when you do, I think you should use your Mother’s ring,” he says. I pick it up off the table, feeling the weight of it in my hand.
“You’re really okay with that?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks.
“You won’t mind seeing her ring on another hand?” I ask.
“Better than seeing it every time I open my nightstand drawer,” he says, and I nod. “Alright, enough of the heavy talk. Let’s order. I’ve been thinking about this ribeye since I called you. I want it medium-rare. There’s nothing worse than an overcooked steak.”
“No, there isn’t,” I say with a smile, and for the first time in, well, maybe ever, I enjoy a dinner with my father.