16 | Lodge Girl
By ten the next morning, I had cleaned the same section of kitchen counter three times.
The lodge was already presentable. Wesley and Kadir had taken care of most of it the night before while Leo sat beside me claiming emotional support counted as labor. The wineglasses had been washed, the hot tub covered, and every damp towel removed from the enclosed porch.
None of that stopped me from moving through the house in search of evidence.
Leo’s sweatshirt was draped over the back of a chair. Suspicious.
Wesley’s drumsticks were on the coffee table. Unprofessional.
A cigarette lighter sat near the patio door. Practically a confession.
I collected each item and carried it toward the stairs before remembering all three men were supposed to be living here. My father would probably expect to see proof of their existence.
I returned the drumsticks to the coffee table.
Then moved them two inches to the left because the original position looked careless.
“You know he’s met us before.”
Kadir stood in the kitchen doorway holding a mug of coffee. He wore black jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt, which made him look far more prepared for the visit than I felt. His hair was still damp from the shower.
“My father has met the professional versions of you.”
“He’s met Leo.”
“That supports my concern.”
Kadir watched me straighten the stack of napkins beside the sink.
I had already changed twice. The first sweater made me look too casual. The button-down shirt made it seem like I had dressed for an interrogation. I had settled on a fitted black top and jeans, then spent ten minutes wondering whether black suggested guilt.
Apparently, guilt had a dress code.
Kadir stepped closer while I adjusted the napkins again. His hand settled briefly at my waist. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek.
It was quick. Gentle. Entirely inappropriate considering how much effort I had spent pretending the arrangement could be separated from everything else.
The tenderness made me more nervous than anything he had done naked.
“Don’t do that when he gets here.”
“He isn’t here.”
“That’s not the point.”
Kadir took a sip of coffee. “The lodge looks fine.”
“You don’t know what he notices.”
“He’s coming for lunch.”
The calm response contained the exact kind of wealthy-person logic I expected from my father.
Kadir rested his hand at the base of my spine for another second before leaving the kitchen. I stood there holding a stack of perfectly aligned napkins and tried not to think about how natural the contact had felt.
That was the larger problem.
Sex could be categorized as a terrible professional decision. A kiss on the cheek while I panicked over lunch belonged somewhere I needed a therapist to identify.
Wesley came downstairs wearing a clean sweater and carrying a laundry basket filled with bedding. He looked wholesome enough to appear in an advertisement for mountain resorts and responsible life choices.
“Do these need washing?”
“They’re clean.”
He looked down into the basket. “Then why were they in the hallway?”
“I was checking them.”
“For what?”
I took the basket from him and set it beside the stairs. “I don’t know.”
Wesley smiled but wisely kept the observation to himself.
Leo appeared several minutes later wearing dark pants, a fitted shirt, and the expression of someone who believed getting dressed was a personal favor to me.
I looked at all three men.
“You’re making this weird,” Leo said. “You’re staring at us like we’re trying to cross a border with drugs.”
“Honestly, that would be much easier to explain.”
He moved toward the kitchen, but I blocked him before he could disrupt anything.
“Final rules.”
Wesley leaned against the wall. Kadir remained beside the patio door. Leo made a show of checking the time.
“Shirts stay on. Nobody mentions the hot tub, the tour video, the studio console, the table, my bedroom, your bedrooms, or anything that happened while any of us were naked.”
Leo’s eyebrows lifted. “That removes most of our recent conversation topics.”
“Find new ones.”
“Can I talk about music?”
“Musical creativity is allowed. Conversational creativity is suspended.”
Wesley laughed.
I pointed at him. “You’re not safe either. Nobody calls me their favorite manager. Nobody says bitchy manager. Nobody makes jokes about my father’s timing.”
Leo looked disappointed. “That was my best material.”
“That material dies with us.”
Kadir opened the patio door to let in a thin line of cold air. “You’re assuming he’ll ask strange questions.”
“He doesn’t have to ask anything. You guys create problems without prompts.”
“That feels directed at Leo,” Wesley said.
Leo placed one hand against his chest. “I can be professional.”
I had watched him charm label executives, journalists, venue owners, and one police officer who had been prepared to tow their van. Leo could become polished whenever survival or attention required it.
The concern was what happened once he became bored.
A vehicle pulled into the driveway shortly before noon.
My entire body tightened.
Wesley took the lunch plates from my hands before I dropped them. Kadir closed the patio door. Leo walked toward the front windows and looked outside.
“Black SUV,” he said. “Very subtle.”
I pushed past him and opened the front door.
My father climbed out of the back seat wearing a wool coat and carrying two large paper bags. The driver retrieved another container from the rear of the vehicle.
I stepped onto the porch before the men could crowd behind me.
My father smiled when he saw me. He handed one bag to the driver, set the other down, and pulled me into a hug. I had prepared for questions about deadlines, recording schedules, and label expectations.
He held me for several seconds and kissed the top of my head.
“You look tired.”
“I’m working.”
He leaned back to inspect me with the same expression he had used since I was sixteen and claiming three hours of sleep was enough.
Before he could continue, Wesley came outside to help with the food.
My father greeted him warmly. Kadir followed and took the heaviest container without being asked. Leo stayed in the doorway until my father looked toward him.
“Leo.”
“Sir.”
The transformation was impressive.
His posture changed. His voice lowered into the smooth, respectful register he reserved for people who controlled budgets or could remove him from private property.
My father glanced at me. “You got him trained.”
“Temporary, probably.”
Leo smiled. “Dasha has very effective methods.”
I held his gaze until the smile became innocent.
We carried the food into the dining room. My father had brought roasted chicken, vegetables, bread, several salads, and a dessert that required its own insulated container. He explained that the restaurant near the airport had been recommended by someone on the flight crew.
That was how my father obtained lunch recommendations. Not from reviews or maps. From employees of private aviation companies.
The meal began more easily than I expected.
He already knew the men, which removed the awkward introduction stage. He asked about the drive, the lodge, and the weather. Wesley described the gym. Kadir mentioned the studio equipment. Leo complained about the isolation in a tone that suggested he secretly enjoyed having no audience besides us.
My father asked about the bar performance.
I watched all three men become more careful.
Leo handled it well. He admitted the decision had violated the original agreement but pointed out that the song had developed from the risk. Kadir said the performance forced them to listen in real time. Wesley described the crowd without mentioning the way I had stood near the stage.
They sounded like a band discussing work.
I allowed myself to breathe.
The danger came from smaller things.
Wesley passed me the bread before I reached for it. Kadir refilled my water while continuing his conversation with my father. Leo moved the salad I disliked farther away and nudged the roasted vegetables toward me without looking.
Each action was harmless.
Together, they revealed familiarity.
My father noticed the men looking toward me before answering questions about the retreat. He noticed that Leo waited when I lifted one finger during an interruption. He noticed that Kadir gave me room to explain how the second track had developed.
He interpreted all of it as professional respect.
My father changed the subject halfway through lunch.
“Did Dasha ever tell you about the schedules?”
I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth.
“No,” Wesley said immediately.
Leo leaned forward. “What schedules?”
“There is no story.”
My father ignored me. “She was twelve. We took a family trip, and she made individual itineraries for everyone.”
Kadir looked at me.
I focused on my food.
“They were necessary,” I said.
“She scheduled breakfast for seven thirty and fined me two dollars for arriving late.”
Wesley’s face lit up. “You fined your father?”
“He was twenty minutes late.”
“I was paying for the trip.”
“That didn’t affect the schedule.”
My father laughed. “She made badges too. Mine got revoked on the third day.”
Leo looked delighted. “Why?”
“He kept losing it.”
Kadir smiled. “This explains a lot.”
“I was organized.”
“You were a tiny dictator,” Leo said.
Wesley rested both arms on the table. “Do the badges still exist?”
“No.”
My father nodded. “I have mine.”
The betrayal was complete.
Leo asked to see it. My father promised to locate a photograph. I spent the remainder of the story attempting to redirect the conversation while the men collected details they would use against me for the rest of the retreat.
The embarrassment didn’t irritate me as much as I thought it would.
My father looked relaxed. Wesley genuinely enjoyed the story. Kadir watched me with quiet amusement. Leo had discovered evidence that my controlling tendencies predated his band and appeared happier than the label had managed to make him in years.
For several minutes, they occupied the same space without conflict or performance.