Page 9 of The Mistakes I've Made
My father had made a name for himself decades ago when I was nothing more than a toddler. Back then, Hart Hotels had been just a small chain here in Hawaii, which had been started by my grandparents, who’d met during World War II.
My grandfather, who had been stationed at Pearl Harbor, had fallen in love with the island and then with my grandmother. After the war, they’d opened the first Hart hotel, a small bungalow-style inn that welcomed guests from all over the world. Over the years, my grandparents had been fortunate to open several more and lived a comfortable lifestyle.
But it was my father who had really taken it to a global level, creating Hart International—a company that, in only a matter of a couple of years, now rivaled even the biggest hotel chains.
Looking through the database, I pulled up the latest acquisitions, seeing what properties my father had purchased. This was something he was known for—scooping up less than desirable properties in glamorous locations and turning them into something no one had expected. At any time, we had about a dozen hotels in progress globally.
These would be the future of the company over the next few months, if not years, and I wanted in. I wanted in so badly that I could taste it. Clicking on several, I could see he’d bought a property in Paris, one in Bali, and several other island locations I didn’t recognize, all varying in size and price.
Honestly, I’d take any of them as long as I wasn’t stuck in this building anymore. I just wanted to make my mark. Hell, I’d even take Chicago with its arctic winters if it meant something different for a change.
I really hated that I was jealous of Becky.
I’d written her a letter of recommendation for this job as a favor since we’d been friends in college, and now, she was off living my dream.
I checked the clock again.
Thirty minutes past twelve.
I started to get antsy.
My father was a talker and a known perfectionist. This could take a while. Thankfully, the food could keep awhile longer.
Fifteen minutes and two games of solitaire later, a knock came at the door. I jumped to my feet and tried to smooth the wrinkles in my blouse as the handle turned. My heart pounded, and I wondered if that was a normal reaction to a daughter seeing her father.
I also tried to remember the last time I’d seen him.
Six months?
Nine maybe?
Had we spent Christmas together? No, he’d canceled.
Letting go of my nerves, I plastered on a confident smile, only to feel it shatter when my father’s assistant walked through the door.
I already knew what that meant.
“Hi Leilani,” he said, a careful tone he’d used with me on more than one occasion. In fact, I recalled the same formal cadence in his voice when he’d called only hours before my father was to arrive for Christmas dinner, telling me he’d had a change of plans. “I’m so sorry, but your father—”
“Isn’t coming,” I said, finishing his sentence for him. “What’s his excuse this time?”
Troy, who wasn’t much older than myself, gave me a sort of nod. His head tilted to the side, and his lips pursed.
I got it.
He couldn’t say.
Or wouldn’t.
“Well, thanks for doing his dirty work,” I said. “You want a canapé? They’re the best in the city.”
His eyebrows lifted as I motioned to the pretty platter of desserts. It was the most emotion I’d seen. Well, the truest emotion, I guessed, considering my dad had basically turned him into a walking, talking robot.
“Uh, no, but thank you.”
“Of course,” I said, my lip quivering as I fought off tears.
If there was one thing that could stop a man in his tracks, even a half-cyborg like Troy, it was tears. He stood frozen in place, staring at me, unsure of what to do as I sniffled into the palm of my hand.
