Page 3 of Tempt Thy Neighbor

I don’t bother reaching for it. I can see from here it’s my father calling yet again.

This is the third time he’s called, and it’s only seven AM.

My screen goes black, then lights up again not thirty seconds later.

This time it’s not a call.

He left a voicemail.

I snag my phone and tap the notification.

I don’t have to bring it up to my ear. My father’s a loud talker.

“This is getting ridiculous, Holland Marie.”Oh shit. He middle-named me.“You won’t last anywhere but at Evans Inc. We both know that. Just knock off your childish antics and come back.”

He hangs up.

NoLove you. NoGoodbye.

Just dead air.

I’d be annoyed if I wasn’t completely used to it.

Having worked as my father’s assistant for the last four years, this is nothing new.

What is new is his total lack of faith in me.

It’s a known fact in our family that I’m Dad’s favorite child and my brother, Dean, is Mom’s. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, his little shadow. I was the one who wanted to sit and listen to him talk about projections and the latest trends. I was the one who shared the morning paper with him, poring over the business section before he did so I could hold a conversation with him.

We’ve always been two peas in a pod, career-driven and hungry for more.

It’s why it sucks so much he’s taken such advantage of me over the past few years. I always thought he was going to be there to have my back, to be my biggest cheerleader.

But he stopped being that when he realized he needed me more than I ever needed him.

“Wow. Your dad is an asshole.”

I look up to find my older—only by fifteen months—brother standing in the doorway, two coffee cups in hand.

“You heard that, huh?”

He nods. “Not my first time either. It’s the same line he used on me when I told him I’d rather go into education than work at Evans Inc.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes, and I’m sure he’s reflecting on how strained his relationship has been with our father over the years because of that decision. He gives his head a shake, pushing away what I’m sure are all the fights they’ve had rolling through his mind, and holds a mug out to me. “Coffee?”

“Fuck yes.”

He pushes off the doorjamb and pads into the room. He hands me what I know is a steaming cup of joe with a splash of milk and sprinkle of cinnamon before taking a seat next to me.

He groans, trying to get comfortable. Before I can say anything, he turns his bright green eyes on me, glaring. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear any comments about how old I’m getting.”

“I didn’t even say anything.” I take a sip of my coffee and grin at him over the rim. “Yet.”

“You’re not much younger than me.”

“Compared to you, I’m a spring chicken.”

He rolls his eyes. “Barely. God, how the hell are you sleeping on this wretched air mattress? There’s a perfectly good couch in the living room, you know.”

I shrug. “It’s not that bad.”

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