Page 15 of Someone to Tempt
“Ourdance class,” he clarifies.
A knot forms in my stomach. “Uh…I don’t think so. I’m dropping you off and then heading to the nearest coffee shop to get some work done.”
“The hell you are.” Grandpa sits back against the seat. “There’s a new gal starting today who’ll need a partner, so you’re joining the class. I already talked to Char and got you enrolled. Char’s the best. She spent years dancing on cruise ships and man, can she move.”
My jaw drops. “You aren’t serious. I don’t have time for?—”
“You can make time for this. It’s an hour twice a week. Although you and the new gal might need some extra practice. We can’t have you embarrassing us before the big show.”
“Whoa! Big show? Let’s pump the plié brakes,” I tell him.
“It’s not ballet, Jakey. It’s couples dancing—ballroom. Like on those reality competition shows. It’s real popular. You’re going to love it.”
“Grandpa, if I’m going to show you I’m the right guy to take the reins of the Byrne Family Foundation, I think my attention should be on that.”
“I disagree.” The amusement has drained from his voice, and I glance over, trying to mask my frustration and panic.
“You disagree that I’m the right person to take over the foundation?” Sure, most people think I’m a trustafarian slacker, but I thought my grandfather saw more. I wanted to believe he saw the me I could be if given the chance. “Why did you invite me here to discuss the opportunity? Why not just make the announcement that Dad’s your successor?”
“Pump the jumping to conclusions brakes, kid. I’m not ready to make an announcement on who will take the reins, and I won’t be rushed on my decision. I disagree about where your attention should be while you’re here. Don’t get your britches in a twist.”
Grandpa means business when he starts talking britches, so even though it’s killing me, I keep my mouth shut.
“We have your reputation to consider if you truly want to be thought of as a viable candidate.” His voice is gentle even though the words land like a lead weight. “Your lifestyle is public knowledge.”
I know my reputation. I’m the one who cultivated it, even after I outgrew that version of myself. “What does me being a slacker have to do with dance class?”
“I’m happy you’re interested in our family’s legacy, but the foundation is about commitment to the communities we serve in Colorado and Texas. You don’t stick with things.”
“I can stick,” I tell him. In the past decade, I’ve written and published eight bestselling mysteries and learned a metric shit ton about dedication, time, effort, and hard work. But I’ve also kept my career a massive secret from the world. Not even my grandfather knows about that part of my life, and even though the secret is coming back to bite me in the ass, I don’t plan to share that information with anyone.
But, seriously? I can’t stick? All I do is stick—for my readers, my publisher, and my brother’s memory. Using a pen name started so I wouldn’t have to explain that I was, in essence, stealing my dead brother’s dream. It’s allowed me to honor his memory on my own terms, preserving control and keeping the focus on the books.
I made a vow when I started writing, and I won’t go back on it now. I have to find another way to convince my grandfather I’m not the silver-spoon slacker everyone thinks I am.
“How many sports did you play growing up?”
I tap my thumb on the steering wheel. “Plenty of kids are multi-sport athletes.”
“How many full seasons did you make it through on a team?”
“I don’t like being told what to do.” I also didn’t appreciate being compared to my older brother and coming up short every time. It seemed easier to go in a different direction than Mike, which happened to be quitting.
“How many schools did you attend?”
“I get your point.”
“What about college?”
“It wasn’t the right fit.”
“Three semesters at Yale. Three.”
“Who cares? All I ever heard from Dad was that Yale isn’t Harvard.”
According to the GPS, we’ve almost made it to the dance studio, and I want nothing more than to drop the old man off and keep driving. Every sideways glance from him just confirms what I already know—he still sees me as that irresponsible teenager, not someone worthy of carrying on his legacy.
Grandpa pats my arm, and even though I’m still frustrated, the blame lies with me for not giving him a reason to believe I’ve changed. The worst part? How much it stings. Like I'm seventeen again and desperate for his approval
