Page 15 of Love Me Tomorrow

What I don’t love is feeling as though the weight of the ERRG legacy rests entirely on my shoulders.

The pressure is . . .stifling.

With my knuckles to the door, I give it a little push and step inside.

Dad’s face brightens at the sight of me. “Well if it isn’t my new Vice President.”

I try to grin, if only because I know the VP title should feel like an accomplishment. On paper, I’ve more than earned it. In reality, I’d prefer to just be Savannah Marie Rose, interior designer; it’s what I studied in school.

Well, for a second major.

Hospitality, as was expected of me, came first.

“Heya, Pops.”

He leaps up from behind his monstrosity of an oak desk and comes toward me, arms opened wide to envelop me in a big hug. He doesn’t hesitate for a single second, the way he did when he dropped me off at the airport, back in the fall, for my flight to California. Then, I hadn’t been willing to accept his affection, no matter how well-intentioned. All he’d needed was one look at my stiff expression to know our relationship was on thin ice, despite the fact that, even in November, the weather was hot enough to have me sweating under my shirt. He hadn’t issued a single apology, not for backing me into the proverbial corner with his deals and his ultimatums, not for saying what he did to Amelie that sent her—my bold, brave sister—running with her tail tucked between her legs. No, he’d only passed over my suitcases like we were nothing more than strangers, wished me the best for the show, and somberly climbed back into his SUV without another word.

Edgar RoseIVis notoriously well-known for remaining silent when words would do him a whole lot of good.

And now . . . Now, I feel like that drunk balancing on a tightrope, torn between wanting to give in to how much I’ve missed him and continuing to stand my ground—for my sake and Amelie’s, too.

Jump. Don’t jump.

Indecision divides my heart, but in the end, I find myself clinging to the familiar as I wrap my arms around Dad’s middle in a moment of weakness. In seven months, life has changed in so many ways, butthis—my dad—hasn’t changed one bit. He still smells like tobacco and peppermint, and he still dresses like he’s prepared for an emergency and might be called to cook in one of our many kitchens at any moment. T-shirt. Jeans. Scuffed black tennis shoes that have seen better days. His shorn dark hair is a little grayer at the temples, though, and when he pulls back to smile at me, I can’t help but note that the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes also seem more pronounced.

“You look tired,” I tell him.

“Andyou,” he counters, letting me go to sail back to his rightful place behind his desk, “look as though you’ve spent too much time hanging out with your sister. What kind of dress is that? It looks like a blanket.”

I glance down at the “offensive” garment. I wouldn’t call it ablanket, per se. More like . . . Bohemian. In search of some major retail therapy, Amelie and I found it at a little hole-in-the-wall shop when we stopped in Bari, Italy, before making our way via ferry to Greece. I immediately fell in love with the way the canary-yellow fabric swept over my frame, not hugging my breasts or my hips. After being stuffed like sausage meat into tight, sequined dresses and even tighter jeans during my time onPut A Ring On It, I’d craved the freedom of being able to walk around without Spanx or having to suck in my stomach at all times.

Taking the seat across from Dad, I cross my right leg over my left at the knee. “I like it.”

His mouth settles into a small frown. “Maybe don’t wear it for meetings.”

“Because it’s bright and looks like sunshine?”

“Because you look like a beach bum, Savannah, and ERRG doesn’t employ beach bums for Vice Presidents.”

Anddddd here we go.

Tempted as I am to check out the grandfather clock in the corner of the office—just to confirm that it’s been less than one whole minute before Dad started harping on about something new he doesn’t approve of—I instead fold my hands in my lap, squeezing them together, and force myself to exhale the frustration.

Europe was temporary. It was lovely and a total breath of fresh air, and God knows Amelie had needed me there to have her back, no matter what she might say about being just fine on her own. Butthisis my life and forgetting that will only lead to disappointment.

Coward.

I slam the proverbial lock on Owen Harvey and throw away the damn key. He has no idea what he’s talking about, calling me a coward. He owes no one, not even his twin brother, an explanation for how he lives his life and why he does the things that he does.

There are no consequences.

There are no quiet conversations about destroying the family legacy by expressing a want, aneed, to do something other than manage construction crews and hundreds of employees and whether or not the menu at five of our fourteen open restaurants needs sprucing up.

The Harveys, from what I’ve seen of Owen, Gage, and Gage’s wife Lizzie, are a tight trio where if one teeters, the others bolster up the fallen, on their own shoulders if need be.

The Roses . . . Well, let’s just say everyone wants a piece of the pie in my family. Second cousins. My aunt and uncle. Our drama has made local headlines more times than I can count, and if they ever discovered our latest scandal—actually, pump the brakes. I don’t even want to think about that. Honestly, the only one whodoesn’tgive a crap about the Rose legacy is my younger sister, who is currently lounging on a sandy beach in Italy, if the picture she sent to me this morning is any indication.

Amelie Rose is living the dream, even if it has come at a massive cost to her emotional well-being, and I’m just . . . living.

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