Page 6 of The Bargain
“I don’t know,” I say, but a truth flows easily from my lips. “I guess…I’m scared.”
“Fear is good. It keeps you on your toes. It keeps you present. It means you care.”
I do care, I think. About my career, about him, and unfortunately a bit too much about Ethan. “I’m eager to get home and to the store to try to plan this all out.”
“Get some rest. We’ll pop champagne when you get here.”
“That would be nice. Dinner tomorrow night?”
He clears his throat. “I actually have a date. Would you believe it?”
“Oh, now it’s my turn to say whoa. You know I need details—well, the ones that a daughter can hear.”
He barks out laughter. “I’m not sure I’m exciting enough these days to live up to that comment.”
“Well, as your daughter, I won’t complain, but—who is she?”
“The owner of a restaurant that just brought in our whiskey. She’s a bit of an entrepreneur. She’s opening a couple of new locations soon.”
“She sounds interesting. How old?”
“Forty-two.”
The same age Mom would be if she were alive, but I don’t say it. “Her name?”
“Kelly.”
“Kelly,” I repeat, trying that out on my tongue, a bit nervous for him. He needs this. “I want to hear more. She gets you tomorrow night, and I get you the next? You can tell me about the date then. Or—if you have a second date, we can move it to breakfast. Of course, if you’re tied up—”
“Stop already. It’s Sunday night. We’ll do dinner Tuesday night. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m proud of you, honey.” His voice is warm with the emotion behind those words. “You dared to present your own line, and look where you are now. You made this happen.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Night, honey.”
“Night,” I murmur and allow the phone to drop to the bed, and ironically, considering all that has happened, I find myself replaying a conversation I had with Ethan.
“Since I was a little kid obsessed with Barbie. I actually started drafting designs at age ten. My mother was so proud. She showed them to the world, and I swear she would have sent out public announcements when I got into design school, had I let her.”
“Does she think Moore’s is the right move for you?”
“Why?” I ask, and not because I’m avoiding the topic of my mother, though on some level I am. Her death cuts deeply. I’mnot sure if it’s smart for this man to know that part of me. “Is there something wrong with Moore’s?” I ask.
“It depends on what you want. Store brands are not Prada. Which do you want to become?”
“Prada, of course.”
“Then you don’t want this offer.”
“What if I don’t get another offer?”
“You won’t if you take this one. But do the work, get them to offer, and then that becomes part of your résumé. They offered. You walked away.”
I blink back to the present and sigh, my gaze landing hard on the floral print of the bedspread without really seeing it. I don’t want to walk away from this opportunity, nor do Ihaveto walk away. Thanks to him pushing me to reach for my dreams, I dared to do just that by presenting the Zoey line to Moore’s. Guilt over walking out on him without saying as much stabs at me, and I reach for my phone. I pull up his number and start to type a message but stop. There are so many ways he might interpret a “thank you” or “I’m sorry” from me when I’m here and not there with him. I don’t have a clue what to say to him. And as if he has connected to me across the miles, a message appears on my phone from him:
