Page 13 of The Labor Date
“Good to hear. I’ll have to check the odds. I like to dabble in a little sports betting now and then.” Dad smirks. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish the conversation with my daughter alone.”
He pushes back his chair. “Sure. Holly, I’ll see you back at home later.”
“Home?” Dad turns his puzzled face to me.
“Auntie offered Scott a room for a while, until he gets on his feet here,” I blurt, but the damage is done. Scott’s reaction is subtle but sharp—his jaw ticks, his eyes widen briefly before shuttering. Why does this seem to be a problem for him?
We haven’t exactly figured out what our situation is, relationship or otherwise. We talk about having fun, and find pockets of time to spend together in and around our busy schedules. What about any of that spells out long-term or love? Even though my heart is already falling.
“Ah. So, it’s not enough that you hide up here in Montana. You’re using this guy as your distraction from making any attempts to reunite with Peter?” Dad huffs, his face turning red.He always had a high blood pressure problem that spiked when he didn’t get his way.
“You mean so she can reunite with a dickhead who treated her like shit?” Scott interrupts.
“This is none of your damn business,” Dad spits like venom.
“Maybe not, but I won’t sit here and let you talk to Holly like that.”
“Scott, enough. Please go. I’ll finish up here and see you later—” I start, but he pulls me up from my chair and into his arms before I can stop him.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay with him? I hate to leave you like this,” he whispers in my ear.
“Yes. Go on. I’ll be fine.” I inhale his freshly showered manliness like he bathed in an Irish spring at the hockey locker rooms. Scott has no idea how his arms around me gives me strength to press on with Dad.
My stomach twists as he lets me go and heads toward the door. I turn back to Doug, but the smug tilt of his mouth practically accosts me.
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. “I can’t go back to Peter. I won’t. You know how he treated me. You actually want your daughter to marry a cheater?”
He only ever cared about merging our family with Peter’s, another power move in his ongoing game of life.
My father’s voice hardens. “You don’t get to decide. Breaking off your engagement and moving out was bad enough, especially while I was distracted with Brenda on our extended honeymoon in Asia. Now, I’ve spent the past year being very patient while you were supposed to be patching things up with Peter. But they’ve been nothing but empty promises, haven’t they?”
He rises up, and leans over the table, hovering above me, intimidating me. I try my damnedest not to shrink back. I lookhim in the eye and say, “I am not yours to control, and I will never, ever go back to Peter. So stop pushing.”
Upright, he straightens his jacket, buttoning it at the waist. “Peter’s waiting for your call. And I don’t give a fuck if it’s a loveless marriage. You will do what I say, or I cut you out of my life.”
My jaw hits the floor and he stalks away, and only when I see him get into his car do I let out a breath. Hasn’t he already cut me out? For so long, I’ve never been enough for him. No wonder Mom divorced him. He hasn’t been there for me since. Why do I keep trying to earn his love?
The realization makes me choke on a sob, clutching my cup like it might anchor me. Only now, the foam heart has dissolved into nothing but swirls of brown.
12
SCOTT
My first impression of Doug?Asswipe of the century. I make a quick escape from the coffee shop. On the ride home, my mind stews over it all, hands tight on the steering wheel, worried for Holly.
Then there was the matter of how she introduced me—as a friend. Indicated my stay at her aunt’s home was only temporary. Why does that bother me?
“Fuck my life.” I know why, and it snuck up on me. I’ve been letting my heart fall for once in my life. This has become more than fun and games with Holly.
My brain actually let my heart think beyond sex to playing house, to believing she could be mine. But at any moment could she run back to Peter in California with pressure from that dickhead who calls himself her father?
While waiting for her to arrive, I practically wear a path on the floors, pacing until the sound of her car pulls into the drive.
“We need to talk,” I start, opening the front door for her and Winston. But her tear-stained face stops me.
She doesn’t utter a word, simply kicks off her heels, lets the cat out of his carrier, and heads for the kitchen. Winston makesa beeline for his highest perch, always observing from up there like he’s an international spy.
Her mood is obvious as I watch her take down a wine glass, fill it with chardonnay and down the whole thing in a few gulps. I lean inside the doorway of the kitchen, and cross my arms, waiting as patiently as I can.
