Page 45 of Score to Settle
A waiter clinks a fork against a glass, announcing dinner is ready to be served, and there’s a shuffling of bodies as people drift to their seats. I swallow down the memory and take my seat, avoiding eye contact with Scott as he takes the chair next to mine. The overwhelming scent of his cologne hits my senses, causing another barrage of memories I don’t want.
I guess I only have myself to blame for the fact we’re at the same table. I never told Dad what an asshole Scott is. By the time I realized, Dad was already helping Scott get his first job. Anything I said would’ve seemed petty. So I’ve kept quiet all these years and let Dad think Scott and I are still friends.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Scott straighten his place setting. There’s no denying he’s good-looking. Short brown hair and an attractive face, but after spending nearly four weeks with Jake’s hulking frame, Scott looks weak and pathetic in comparison. He’s also a chauvinistic prick who thinks the world and everything in it belongs to him, including me.
I angle my body to the left and talk to a war reporter in her fifties. She introduces herself as Lori and tells me she worked with Dad over fifteen years ago. The stories she shares of their time together sound more like an Indiana Jones movie than anything my dad would do.
“Your dad,” Lori replies, shooting him a wistful look that makes me wonder if they were ever more than just colleagues. “He never shut up about you. He even showed me these cute stories you wrote about a horse named Whisper.”
I laugh, surprised at the memories the name unleashes. I remember the stories I wrote as a kid about a naughty mare called Whisper, who kept running away to find her dad, having adventures along the way. I’d write them while Dad was away, leaving them on his desk for when he returned. He never told me he’d read them, let alone took them with him.
“I’d forgotten about those stories,” I admit, following her gaze. Dad is in full swing, lecturing his half of the table on the future of the political landscape. It’s his favorite topic and a lecture I’ve heard many times. His silver hair is as scruffy as ever and his tux looks like he wore it for a week-long stakeout in a car before coming here tonight. Knowing Dad, he probably did.
By the time the main courses have been cleared and a chocolate mousse is placed in front of me, I’ve almost forgotten Scott is beside me. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for him.
“Hello, Harper,” he purrs in my ear when Lori is pulled into a conversation with her husband. Scott places a possessive hand on my upper arm that immediately gives me the creeps. “You look stunning as always.”
“Hi, Scott,” I say, shifting away from his touch. I hate everything about this guy, but the last thing I’m going to do is make a scene during Dad’s big night.
He doesn’t catch the hint and invades my space again. “I hear you’re working atSports Magazinenow.”
“Yep.”
“I imagine that’s a good fit for you. More on your level thanInsight.”
I’m about to tell him to shove his “good fit” up his ass when there’s movement across the room and Mia’s mom, Gloria, takes the stage in a beautiful emerald-green sequined dress. She sees me at my table and smiles, mouthing an “are you ok?” my way.
I nod and something in that brief moment of care makes me pull my shoulders back. I might have failed at my dreams of being a journalist in New York, be sleeping on my best friend’s couch, and be way out of my depth with a gorgeous football player I never know from one minute to the next if I want to yell at or kiss, but I’m still ten times the human Scott is.
It’s at that moment Scott’s hand moves to the back of my chair, his fingers brushing my bare skin. I round on him,twisting quickly and getting in his face. I don’t break the polite smile as I drop my voice and whisper, “Scott, keep your fucking hands to yourself. If you touch me again, I’m going to break your fingers.”
He pulls back, mouth gaping, but I don’t miss the darkness flashing in his eyes as Gloria begins her introduction to the evening’s event. “We’re here, of course, to recognize the lifetime achievement in journalism of George Cassidy. As a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, George needs no introductions, but he’s most certainly earned one. So I’d like to welcome his friend and self-confessed protégé, Scott Harrington, to present the award.”
Scott stands, stepping around the table and shaking Dad’s hand before taking to the stage. I focus on the wine in my glass and tune out Scott’s speech. The last thing I need is to be reminded of how my ex-boyfriend owes his career to my dad.
A slow-burn anger simmers in my body as the room erupts in applause and my father makes his way to the stage, hugging Scott and taking the golden award in the shape of a quill.
“I’ll keep this short,” Dad says in the hard voice I remember from my childhood and teens. My anger softens. My dad has always had a commanding presence, and despite our awkward relationship, he’s still my dad. I’m proud of him.
“I’ve spent my life reporting the news, not being part of it. But I’m honored to accept this lifetime achievement award tonight. When I started at theDenver Chronicleover forty years ago, journalism was a very different beast. We pounded the streets, chased leads and hoped we had enough to fill the next day’s paper. Now news breaks online in an instant. Our biggest challenge in journalism has become to cut through the bullshit and the fake news to report the truth. It’s a job I’m not done with yet.”
He raises the award, his gaze traveling across the sea of faces until he finds mine. He gives a single nod before leavingthe stage. Is that it? One terse nod to the daughter who always came second to his career? I almost laugh at myself. Was I really expecting anything more?
Dad steps down from the stage and I stand. Our hug is brief and awkward. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, smiling through the hollowness threatening to suck me away. I wish—like I always do in these moments—that my mom was here.
“I’m flying out again next week. Lunch tomorrow before I go?” he asks and I wonder if he even realizes next week is Christmas.
“Sounds good.” I smile, already preparing myself for the apologetic message on my phone when I wake up tomorrow, telling me about an urgent story he needs to cover and canceling our lunch.
“I’ll see if Scott can join us, too,” he adds.
I feel myself wanting to nod, to say something bland and accepting like I always do, but the memory of Scott’s fingers stroking my back is far too fresh for playing nice. “Let’s make it just us. You might think the sun shines out of his ass, but Scott’s a total asshole who deserves to rot in hell.” I spin away, keeping my head high as I walk to the restrooms without waiting to see the look of surprise and probably disappointment on Dad’s face. My heart hammers in my chest. I don’t know if I feel mortified or gleeful. Either way, I can’t believe I just said that.
I’m leaning against the wall in the corner with a glass of wine, hiding from Scott and a room full of people wanting to tell me how talented my dad is, when my gaze snags on a familiar figuremoving toward me. Tall, broad, and smoking-hot in a way that makes my stomach flutter. It can’t be…
I didn’t think Jake could look hotter than he did in his low-slung basketball shorts in the gloom of the kitchen at the ranch on that first weekend together. Or coming off the field in his jersey and pads, muscular and unstoppable. But Jake in a tuxedo isutterlyswoon-worthy. Our eyes lock. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m weak at the knees for this man. I don’t bother to fight the grin spreading across my face.
