Page 77 of This

She squeals my name when I pick her up by the backs of her thighs, her legs locked around me as I carry her to the bedroom. We have a lot of shit we need to say between now and when I drop her off at the airport, but I’ll worry about it tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll love her and sleep.

The check is still on my dresser.

Isqueeze in as muchtime with Bennett as I can over the next twelve hours. Then, in the afternoon, I force myself to go to the mortuary for the first time since my mother’s funeral. It’s the smell that hits first—distinct and unlike anything else I’ve experienced. An overload of flowers along with the combined scents of the waves of people who’ve passed through the building over the course of a hundred years. Second is the lighting in the viewing area—a rosy tint cast over the room.

Liam and I dutifully shake every hand extended for the next few hours, repeating, “Thank you. That means a lot,” and, “He sure was,” depending on the sentiment offered.

Most of our clients make an appearance along with a great aunt we’ve only met a few times who lives in Sarasota. When Willis comes in, he makes his rounds before slipping me an envelope and a wink. I open the flap enough to see inside and tuck it in my pocket, not sure how to feel about a bereavement bonus.

Greg might be the only person I’ve seen openly drinking at a visitation before. The more scotch he downs, the more laser-focused his glare is on me. Eventually, I ignore him, refusing to bother with the stare-downs he keeps trying to lock me into.

The crowd thins, and my eyes are Bennett-hunting. She snuck in with Keaton earlier and gave me a reserved smile. I might have been joking about screwing her in my truck, but the bailing early part? All I want to do right now.

I head toward the back where I last saw her. The door to the small room for the family to take a breather is cracked open. I start to push the handle but stop at the sound of Greg’s voice on the other side.

“…and so beautiful,” he says.

I pull my hand away, unwilling to walk in on anything between him and Aubrey. I saw enough at the company Christmas party. But I only get a few steps before I notice my stepmother picking at her manicure in a corner next to a flower wreath.

And then I hear it.

“I really should find Keaton.”

My blood runs cold at Bennett’s voice on the other side of the door, holding every note of uncomfortable with the slimy tone Greg uses on waitresses and secretaries coming through right behind it.

“It’s a shame you and my son couldn’t work something out. But … maybe it’s for the best.”

“Mr. Masters,” she says fast. Then, “Mr. Masters, stop!”

When I throw the door open, Bennett is backed against a table with him in front of her, his fucking hand on her waist.

Her panicked gaze shoots to me. “Dane!”

Greg glances over his shoulder, and she takes the opportunity to shove him away. She rushes toward me, but I pass straight by her. Greg barely gets turned around before I have him against a wall with my forearm to his throat.

After my mother’s funeral, I found Greg at the house, stuffing anything of value into a duffel bag. Miles had to drag me off him, my father’s face bloody and my hand broken. I’d never experienced blinding rage until then. And it feels the same after all these years.

“You’re going to regret ever fucking touching her,” I growl at him.

His hands calmly rise to pull at my arm, so I push harder on his windpipe until he squirms. It feels better than it should, seeing the smugness drain from his face as it reddens.

“Son,” he chokes out.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Dane!” Bennett tugs at my other arm, trying to pull me away, but I stay with my eyes locked on Greg’s, which are blinking faster, the longer I hold him to the wall. “Please, don’t. Nothing happened. I’m okay.”

“The fuck it didn’t,” I say through clenched teeth. “You couldn’t get your hands on the house or company, so you thought you’d put them on her?”

My father’s frantic attention darts behind me, then back, and I safely assume we have company.

“Fucking Christ.” Liam sounds more irritated than anything else. “Down, boy.”

When he appears beside me, I step back.

Greg drops to his knee, hunching over and gasping for air. He glares up at me, yanking at the knot of his tie. “We’re done,” he spits.

“We’ve been done for years.” I pull the bullshit check out of my pocket and throw it at him. It lands on the floor between us, acting as the official battle line on the ugly shag carpet. “Start looking for a new firm because you won’t work at mine.”

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