Page 7 of Someone to Tempt
But when Dad discovered our stash of sweet treats, Mike wasn’t the one blamed, despite his admission that the whole thing had been his idea. Oh, no. I was relegated to flavorless chicken, white rice, and water for a month. Denelle, our kind-hearted housekeeper, was replaced by a stern-faced battle-axe of a woman who took a perverse pleasure in ensuring Mikey and I had access to zero sugar-laden treats.
The whole situation, the association with my father’s angry face, ruined my taste for dessert. But not Mike. My brother wouldn’t be denied or let himself rot under my father’s domineering thumb. He was shrewder about his rebellion, a skill I never learned.
Case in point, I open the box lid and shove half a maple-glazed donut into my mouth, noisily licking my fingertips as Lane Byrne watches with undisguised disgust. Overindulging in a blood-sugar-spiking pastry isn’t the first thing my father has unfairly judged me for and won’t be the last.
“He’ll never give the reins of the foundation to you,” he says, his voice a razor’s edge.
“You think he’ll give it to you?” I ask, forcing myself to swallow the donut that suddenly tastes like sandpaper in my mouth.
“If the alternative is having some pampered rich boy spending the endowment on blow and prostitutes, absolutely.”
I smile, wide and slow. “I gave up blow years ago. My nose is too pretty. Besides, we’re in Colorado. Wacky weed is more the style out here.”
He gives a derisive snort. “That doesn’t make it any better.”
“Try a gummy, Dad. Might relax you enough to pull that stick out of your ass.”
If a jaw could turn to stone, my dad’s features would be plastered on the face of Mount Rushmore right now. I shouldn’t take so much pleasure in baiting him, but he makes it so damn easy.
“You can’t fake your way into being a responsible grown-up, Jake.”
“How much do you hate that you could lose to a loser like me?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. Not quite granite, after all. “I wouldn’t lose anything. Unlike you, I’ve made something of myself. I walked away to prove to my father that I could become something on my own. Assure him I’m worthy of stewarding his legacy. I’ve always had a master plan. You aren’t part of it.”
“We don’t need to rehash your opinion of me when we both know it. You think the wrong son died on that boat all those years ago.” The moment the words escape, I feel hollowed out, like I've ripped something essential from my core and laid it bare between us.
He closes his eyes. For a moment, pain spreads across his face, like a crack in a window, expanding until the whole thing feels like it might shatter. The answering emotion that wells inside me takes my breath away. I live with that same pain, loss, regret, and grief. Every damn day.
It’s been five years since I’ve seen my father in person. Since my mother orchestrated a reunion dinner that ended with my dad tossing his bourbon in my face and storming out. The giant ice cube stung like a son of a bitch.
“I never said those words,” he tells me quietly.
“You didn’t need to.”
His gaze crashes into mine, hazel eyes with the same flecks of gold. I don’t spend much time looking in the mirror, mostly because I hate my resemblance to him. He’s the last person I want to see gazing back at me.
“Why are you really here, Jake? Did you run out of yachts to party on? And what makes you think you’re remotely qualified to handle the foundation?”
“I’m qualified because Icare.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t care about anything or anyone but yourself.”
My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t speak. “I know you blame me for Mikey’s death,” I say, my voice low. “Maybe I should have been able to save him. But I didn’t, and I live with that every day. Running the foundation is my chance to do something good. Mikey believed in helping people. I want to honor him. And I’m done letting people think I’m a screw-up.”
“Your brother was ten times the man you’ll ever be, even as a kid.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, but I force my shoulders to stay relaxed. “Great catching up,Dad, but I’ve got some donuts to deliver.” I glance at my watch. “Nearly ten-thirty. Might be time to rip the day’s first bong hit. I know you appreciate a schedule.”
His lip curls into a sneer before he turns and walks away, his boots crunching on the gravel. I stand there, watching him go. My chest feels tight, like the weight of his disapproval is crushing me. As I head toward the house, the stupid, secret part of me that has always hoped my father and I could find a way past our mutual animosity gives a limp protest. I shove that mangy beast into the dark cave where I’ve kept it all these years.
My grandfather is at the kitchen table, finishing his green tea and theNew York Timescrossword puzzle. I smile when he looks up and try not to let guilt prick tiny holes in my righteous anger. The truth is, I’ve mostly seen my grandfather when he’s come to Texas for visits with the foundation staff who work in the satellite office in downtown Austin. Skylark holds too many memories—most of them not good—for me to feel comfortable here.
“Did you know they put a second stoplight on Main Street?” I ask. “This town is coming into its own.”
“You doing okay?” He takes off his glasses and rubs two fingers over his eyes. “You probably realize I sent you on the pastry errand not because I had a hankering for donuts. I knew your dad was coming by this morning but hoped he’d be gone by the time you got back.”
I place the box on the table and grab the other half of the maple donut. I’m already feeling sick. Might as well continue the fun.
