Page 7 of Wallflower
Dad’s brows climb high enough to carve creases in his forehead. He’s only forty-eight and still has a thick head of hair—dark, like mine, with silver around the edges. “But that’s… That’s great!” He grins as he lifts a forkful of his dinner halfway to his mouth. “Think you can get me his autograph?”
“Maybe. But Dad…”
He senses there’s something I’m not telling him. His expression grows serious as he sets down his cutlery. “What is it, Violet? What are you worried about?”
I huff out a resigned breath. “He’s spending the off-season on his ranch in Sonoma County, and I… I have to go with him.”
“Go with him?” I watch as Dad tries to puzzle it out. “To where? His ranch?”
I nod, and Dad’s eyes cloud with emotion. Understanding. Disappointment. Worry.
It’s been two years since he last had a serious depressive episode, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it every day. Suddenly, I’m talking a mile a minute, hoping that dropping a load of uninteresting trivia will distract us both.
“I looked it up online today at work. His family owns a property called Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard just outside of Aster Springs. His parents bought it in the early 1980s, and when they passed, Chord and his four siblings took over. They make wine—mostly chardonnay and pinot noir—but they also have a small organic farm with heirloom vegetables and fruit and an olive orchard. A few animals—chickens and horses and sheep. There are accommodations and a restaurant. They host weddings and functions, and the property is something like a hundred acres, so Chord built his own house with a pool and… Oh, Dad.” He’s staring through the table and probably hasn’t registered a word I’ve said. I reach out and set my hand on his. “Are you okay?”
“What?” He clears his throat and tops my hand with his. I do the same, so our hands are stacked together, and he smiles. That’s something else we’ve done since I was little. “I’m fine. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you should feel good about it. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to miss you. That’s all.”
“I’ll miss you too, and I don’t know what there is to feel good about. I didn’t apply for the job or anything.” I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “It’s a case of wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ll be okay. I’ll call every day, and I was thinking maybe you could ask around the building for some handyman work. You haven’t done that in a while, and it would keep you busy, plus the extra money might be nice. I’ll also speak to Jennifer upstairs about checking in on you—”
“No, you won’t.” Dad pulls his hands free and scoops up some pasta. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know that.” I drag my hands back and collect my fork, but I only play with my food. “But she’s a nice person, and you could both use the company.”
He snorts. “I can take care of myself.”
He can, I reassure myself, but my voice is small when I reply. “I know.”
We eat our meal in silence, and if it weren’t for the fact that my paycheck keeps this roof over both our heads—and that the Fury was willing to add Dad to my health insurance—I’d quit my job right now and forget all about Chord Davenport. Instead, I have to find a gentle way to tell my dad I’m leaving in twelve hours.
I’m still searching for words when I stand to clear away the dishes, but Dad stops me with a hand on my arm and guides me back to my seat.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so hard to talk to, but I hate it when you worry about me. It reminds me that I’ve screwed up this whole parenting thing, and it’s too late to fix it.”
My heart breaks as I shake my head. “You haven’t screwed up anything. It’s not your fault you have depression.”
“But itismy responsibility, and it’s not the most important thing right now. You are.” His brown eyes, the same deep chestnut shade as mine, soften. “How do you feel about the job?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “Nervous. Kind of overwhelmed. He’s an intimidating guy. Tall—much taller than he looks on the screen—and big. Arrogant. Demanding. He didn’t say muchtoday, but everyone in the room was hanging off every word. There’s something about him, you know? Charisma isn’t the right word. More like, um… magnetism. It’s hard not to look at him.”
“I didn’t know you were such a fan.” Dad’s eyes sparkle as he fights to hide a smile.
“Oh, I’m not.” I don’t want to burden Dad with the truth that I’m more than a little scared of my new boss, but a version of my worries comes tumbling out. “I’ve never been anyone’s personal assistant, though, let alone to someone who’s used to getting what he wants when he wants and how he wants it. I’ll probably screw up a hundred times within a week, and he’ll send me straight back home.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Dad takes my hand and squeezes my fingers. “You’re too smart and too gentle for anyone to treat so badly. Just be yourself, and you’ll do great.”
He’s got no idea about Courtney and what I put up with at work. The day I told him I got a full-time marketing role with his favorite hockey team, his face lit up brighter than a kid at Christmas. It would shatter him to know how much I loathe it, so I smile and grip his hand before letting it go.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And who knows what opportunities might come from this? Impress him enough, and it’ll open doors for you at the Fury. You’ll be running that place in no time.” I roll my eyes, and he boops me on the nose. “Just do your best, Blossom.”
“My best means keeping my head down, staying out of Chord’s way, and doing my job well enough to survive the summer.” I huff out an anxious chuckle. “I’ll be counting down all eighty-seven days until I come home.”
“You said he’s got a family on this ranch?” Dad asks, and when I nod, he looks thoughtful. “Maybe dealing with ChordDavenport on his home turf will soften him a little. You might even become friends.”
