Page 89 of Winning Bid

His words struck a nerve. “You're right about that, Dad.”

44

JUNE

So I don't have a job. Who needs a career anyway?

I do. Damn it.

Maybe I shouldn't be getting my self-esteem from my job. Maybe I should have a better sense of my intrinsic self-worth. But the fact of the matter is, I like having a job. I like being respected by my colleagues. I like feeling valued at my place of employment. I enjoy impressing clients.

So, sitting at home and taking care of the small apartment isn't quite enough for me.

It would be one thing if we had kids to take care of. But sitting around, surrounded by these four walls—four admittedly beautiful walls in an amazing apartment building—but still, it's not … it's not the same as having a job. Or even a hobby.

Somehow I have managed to read almost every book on my TBR list, a task social media would have me believe is impossible. I've started hitting the gym in the apartment building twice a day. I've even watched some of the cooking shows that Anderson was hooked on during his recuperation, but I still can't get sucked into them. That is firmly a him thing.

Maybe I'm going stir-crazy. Or just crazy, crazy. I'm not sure.

Weirdly enough, I've started to come to grips with who my father is. And the fact that he's defrauding Andre is kind of funny, given what that sociopathic bastard has put me through. I wouldn't exactly call it closure, but it might be closure-adjacent. Whatever it is, it feels like that chapter of my life is complete.

Given that it's complete, what the hell else can I do with my time?

I was already short on options when I went to work for Andre in the first place. Elliott West had gone scorched earth on me before then, and it seems pointless now to try and find work when I’m on everyone’s blacklist. It's funny. Thanks to my soon-to-be father-in-law, I can't get a job and must depend on his son more, which is antithetical to what he wants.

Well, he did that to himself.

I don't depend on Anderson just financially. Every day, when he comes home, I feel like one of those new moms who's excited to talk to an actual adult. He walks in, and I take his coat and hang it on the rack. “How was your day, sweetie?”

“Fine, thanks. No new news from the cops, so that's always good.”

“Glad to hear it. Ready for dinner?”

“Oh, who did we order from this time?”

I give him a mock scowl. “No one. I actually made dinner. I can cook, you know.”

He smiles at that. “Then I look forward to trying your dinner. What did you make?”

“Nothing fancy. Just pork schnitzel, homemade applesauce, and coleslaw.”

His lips part in a gasp. But then his brow furrows. “You made applesauce?”

“The store had some Braeburns that smelled really good. Didn't make sense to buy premade.” I trot off to the kitchen. “I also picked up a bottle of Riesling to go with the German-themed dinner. You hungry?”

“I'm pretty sure my stomach has an erection right now, so yes.”

I snort a laugh. “What?”

“That meal sounds amazing. I was wondering why the apartment smelled so good.”

“Don't get too excited, I haven't made schnitzel since I was a girl.”

“How come I'm getting it now? What's the special occasion?”

I shake my head. “Nothing all that special, really. Talking to my dad the other day made me think about Granny. Pork schnitzel was one of her favorite things to make.” I portion out our plates and get us set up on the kitchen island-slash-breakfast bar while he changes into his lounge pants and a tee shirt. “I know we normally eat in front of the TV, but you kind of need a fork and knife for this. Oh, the bread.” I duck to the oven to get it out.

“You made bread?”

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