Page 11 of The Mistakes I've Made
Everyone laughed.
“But the town was as cute as a button. Like small-town Americana meets island life.”
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Piper asked, pulling me back, front and center.
“Do what?”
“Torture yourself over your father,” she said.
“I don’t know, honestly. I mean, I can’t even remember the last time I saw him.”
“We saw him at the Christmas party,” she said with an ounce of hope.
“That was a company party, and he said a few awkward words to me, just like he did to everyone else.”
“He hasn’t been the same since—”
“My mom died. Well, you know what? That was thirteen years ago. The rest of us learned how to move on. Why can’t he?”
Silence fell between us, and it was times like this when I knew Piper really deserved something close to sainthood. In seconds I’d gone from a playful drunk, flirting with the bartender, to a woeful heiress, complaining about her daddy issues, and my best friend had barely batted an eyelash.
“You deserve better,” she said, taking my hand in her own. “And one day, your father’s going to wake up from that coma he’s put himself in and see the amazing woman you’ve become while he’s been too busy to notice.”
“And then will he give me a job?”
“Is that all you’re after? A job?”
I shrugged.
“You have a job, remember?” she reminded me. “And your dad will promote you. Eventually. We might just need to get a little creative on how we get his attention next time.”
For some reason, her words settled at just the right moment.
Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe it was the girls laughing in the booth next to me or the fact that, in a couple of weeks, another year would pass without my mother around.
“Creative you say?”
“Oh no.” Piper’s eyes went wide with the look of panic she got whenever she knew I was getting a wild but genius idea.
It was the same look she’d had on her face the night I talked her into matching lightning bolt tattoos on our ankles. She’d been scared out of her mind when we walked into that tattoo parlor, but she’d walked out, grinning like a damn fool after that burly biker dude tatted up her ankle.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice already rising an octave.
“Shut up. I’m thinking,” I said before turning my chair toward the cackling girls next to us.
“Oh God, what are you doing?” she said as I waved my hand behind me in an attempt to get her to shut up.
“Hey,” I said in my most uppity, girlie-girl voice possible. “I’m sorry to butt in, but I heard you speaking about a hotel—”
“Oh my God, yes!” one of the women answered. She didn’t seem fazed at all that I’d been eavesdropping or the fact that I was a total stranger.
The group of women was probably our age, maybe a bit older. Young mothers out for a night on the town. Most of them had rocks the size of my fist on their left ring fingers and were dressed head to toe in designer clothing.
Honestly, I was surprised I didn’t know any of them.
High society in Honolulu was a tight-knit community, full of backstabbing, gossip, and climbing your way to the top. I’d done a good job of keeping out of the way, but I would always be the daughter of Stephen Hart, hotel tycoon. It was a hard title to run away from.
