Page 77 of One More Time

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I flinched as the tell-tale sound of knuckles on glass pulled me from my daydream. I looked up into the disapproving face of my father, then opened the door to the black four-door coupe. My eyes briefly met Silas’s uncertain glance from the driver’s seat.

“You have a Merry Christmas; tell Delta I said hi,” I told him, attempting to keep the interaction as cordial as possible under my father’s intense glare. “I sent some gifts over for you and the kids.”

Silas managed a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. What time would you like me to come pick you up?”

“Don’t worry about it; I’ll organize my own ride. You go enjoy Christmas with your family,” I replied, my decision firm.

Silas hesitated, gaze flickering to my father’s. “Be safe, Mr. Hunter,” he finally said.

I pondered if time was on my side. Should I have said more? Attempted to offer reassurance that I would be okay? Instead, I opened the door and bypassed my father on the way to the front door.

Inside, I was greeted with a directive from my father. “I need you to be on your best behavior. I have a guest with us tonight, and she was important to me, so no backtalk, do you hear me?” The once-masculine house now resembled a scene from a Bloomingdale’s catalog, Christmas having overtaken my father’s space. I rubbed my chest, trying to massage away the ache of a boy who once yearned for that time of year. Memories long forgotten resurfaced but the music, once a source of joy, had become closer to torment.

I took in the festive scene as I watched my father effortlessly navigate the room until he stood in front of an attractive blonde. She showed no sign of aging, looking timeless in a black dress with her hair swept away from her face. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was closer to my age than my old man’s. His expression softened as he gazed at her, his tall frame leaning in for a kiss where her golden hair met flawless skin. I caught my dad’s eye, and he exchanged a glance with the woman before taking her hand and leading her my way.

“Hunter, this is Brittney. Brittney, my son, Hunter.”

She flashed a confident smile, the kind a lioness would wear as the head of her pride. “So lovely to meet you, Hunter; your father speaks so highly of you.” She initiated a polite kiss on the cheek, and I reluctantly followed suit.

My brain fired off snarky comebacks, but I swallowed them all and played the part. “Likewise, you look lovely this evening.”

Before I could attempt a conversation, my grandfather appeared behind me. “Hunter,” he greeted with a firm hand on my shoulder holding me in place.

I was well aware of my father’s posture straightening in the lingering presence of his dad. Shifting sideways, I escaped the tight hold on my shoulder, but the relief was short-lived as I now found myself under the judgmental gaze of two Graves men. As always, the conversation shifted to business—even on Christmas. My father fielded relentless questions about cases and profits, defending our status as the top law firm in the country as if he were in a courtroom.

“Don’t worry, son. Young Hunter will be with you soon and then you’ll have everything straightened out. Isn’t that right, Hunter?” my grandfather remarked.

I could do nothing more than respond with a forced, “Yes, sir,” concealing the fact that it was a lie. My father shot me a gaze that sent shivers down my spine.

“But I believe Dad’s done an amazing job since your retirement,” I deflected, hoping to please my parental figure by defending him in the presence of his own. “He’s added some big names to the portfolio—and don’t forget the Turner case.”.

My grandfather let out a disapproving chuckle. “Got your son trying to make you look good? That says something, doesn’t it, Dominic?”

Well, there went my hope for a good Christmas. The festive cheer was steadily slipping away, replaced by the weight of crushing expectation.

I quickly turned to the fire to work my jaw, which ached from all the fake smiles and schmoozing. The clock on the mantlepiece told me that I had been at it for two hours. Surely it had been longer than that. A waiter gave me a much-needed reprieve by announcing that lunch was ready to be served. More like dinner at this rate. I found myself wondering if other people’s Christmases came with placement cards and foreign faces. The younger male sitting beside me looked all too eager to be here, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Maybe one day he’d figure out that the grown-ups’ table wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The young, bright-eyed man turned to me with, a broad smile on his face. “Hey, I’m Miles You’re Mr. Graves’ son, right?”

I nodded, not really wanting to engage in any more conversation. Where the hell was this food? I gulped down the glass of red wine in front of me as an excuse not to talk, but the smooth burn of the alcohol was needed.

“You play hockey, right?” I froze, feeling more than one set of eyes hit me from either end of the table.

I nodded again but kept my eyes forward, hoping that the guy would realize I wasn’t interested in the conversation. I caught the glare from my father and my stomach twisted.

Unfortunately for me, Miles kept talking. “I’ve watched your games. Man, you are good. Especially this year. You’re on fire—especially with that Australian dude. I’m a bit of a hockey lover myself. Can’t play for the life of me, so I make it up by the number of games watched.”

A plate was set in front of me, and I was grateful for the distraction. The food should have been amazing—Dad would expect nothing but the best—but it might as well have been chalk in my mouth. I couldn’t taste anything, and the texture only made me sick as I felt eyes on me throughout the whole meal.

I checked the time, knowing I only had about an hour left for dinner before they retreated into the lounge for refreshments. That’s when I would politely excuse myself and get the hell out of dodge so I could be with the people that truly mattered. My phone buzzed in my pocket for what felt like the hundredth time, but I ignored it like I had for the last few hours. If my father caught me looking at my phone, I knew my chances of getting out of there would be slim to none.

“So,” Miles knocked my shoulder playfully. “Were you planning on going into the league, or will I be seeing you in the office?”

“Last year of hockey," I mumbled, hoping he would get the message.

“Oh, that sucks. It’s not like the office is going anywhere; surely your father would love to see his son in the big leagues. You really have the potential.”

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