Page 47 of The Wrong Boss

At the time, his explanations had made sense. He’d made an effort to keep in touch, had made me feel like he wanted me in his life. And he did—why else would he have offered me a job, allowed me to rise to the top of the company he’d nurtured from nothing?

But hearing Rome’s words made an old, buried doubt sprout in my mind. Rome had made a different decision. He’d chosen his child. He’d chosen the woman he loved.

What if I’d had a father like that? What if I’d spent my childhood feelingwanted, instead of noticing all the little ways that I was treated differently from my siblings? The missed birthdays, the extra chores, the way I was blamed for my siblings’ bad behavior?

What kind of man would I be if I’d grown up whole? Would I be marrying a woman that I didn’t?—

I cut off that thought before it could fully form. Alba was good for me. Our marriage made sense. That was the end of it.

I pinched my lips and lifted my glass toward Rome. “And I’m happy for you, man. You’re my best friend. I want that for you.”

“I want that foryou,” he said, eyes intense. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” I insisted, but it felt like a lie. I blew out a breath and tried again. “Work is busy. That’s all. I’m not… The wedding isn’t top of mind right now.”

Rome looked like he wanted to say more, but all he did was nod. “Well, like I said, Alba’s great. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t rushing into anything.”

“I’m not,” I told him. “She’s perfect for me.”

We finished our drinks and went back out to mingle with the rest of the guests. I watched the happy couples laugh, noticed all the casual touches they exchanged, and forced myself to stand beside Alba and stroke her back. She gave me a sideways glance, a brow arched.

When we went home that night, she stripped off the cream blazer she’d worn and swapped her diamond earrings for simple gold hoops. “I promised my mother I’d stop by and go through the seating arrangements for the wedding,” she told me.

“Tonight?”

Shrugging on a cardigan and grabbing her purse from the dressing table where she’d left it, my fiancée hardly gave me a quick glance. “Yeah, tonight,” she said.

“It’s past ten o’clock.”

“The seating charts aren’t going to write themselves,” she said, walking toward the door. “And I knowyou’renot going to do it.”

Ouch. I called out a goodbye and heard her mumbled one back, then listened for the whirr of the elevator that would take her straight from our apartment to the ground floor.

I was alone.

Slumping onto a sofa, I leaned my head against the back of itand rubbed my temples. She was right. I hadn’t been interested in wedding planning, and I’d been using every excuse I could think of. I was busy with work. I didn’t care about chair covers and flower arrangements—and besides, Alba was better at that stuff than I was. I’d just show up with a tux on and stand where I was meant to.

But that wasn’t exactly fair to her, was it?

How else am I going to know if you’re going to be a good dad?

I dropped my hands from my temples and stared at the light fixture in the center of the room. Alba had chosen it—a custom pendant light made by a specialist woodworker. The lattice of polished wood threw complicated shadows all over the room, illuminating the furniture she’d chosen along with the pendant.

I hadn’t cared about decorating this place, either. Hadn’t cared about making a home with her.

And Ididn’tknow if I’d be a good dad. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d be a terrible one. How was I supposed to know how to be a father? My own dad had abandoned me to chase his own dreams, and as much as he pretended to love me now, as an adult, it wasn’t the same as having someone who’d decided to stay. My adoptive dad had treated me like an add-on. I was something to be dealt with, not someone to be loved. Then he’d died, and I found the adoption paperwork in the attic, and his treatment of me made sense.

And now I was supposed to think about raising and nurturing a kid of my own? A kid I’d have with Alba? The woman who would allow me my dalliances, as long as I had them after the wedding.

The rich meal I’d eaten at Rome’s left a sick, sour feeling in my stomach. I’d overindulged. Now it sat heavy in my gut, and all these thoughts only made it worse.

Not to mention Rome’s little intervention. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t rushing into anything. I scoffed in the empty room, watching the light and shadow of the lattice pendant play over the walls and bookcases.

Maybe he was right, and I needed to slow down. But with the wedding approaching and my life with Alba hopelessly tangled, how was I supposed to pump the brakes? And why would I? Shewasperfect for me.

In theory.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, saving me from that dangerous line of thinking. My treacherous, disloyal heart jumped at the name on my screen: Carrie Woods.

---