Page 30 of The Betrayer
Again, a long silence settled between us, and I held up the cup of coffee out of discomfort.
“Brought you some coffee.”
His gaze flicked down to the mug on his desk. “I have coffee already.”
I crossed the room and placed the paper cup next to his keyboard. “But I got you whipped cream on this one, just the way you like it.”
The offering only seemed to deepen Paul’s glare. “I haven’t had whipped cream in my coffee in about a decade.”
My son’s tone was flat and decidedly chilly.
So much for the first peace offering.
Paul glanced down pointedly at his watch—why did the kid have so many timepieces in his office? Did time not weigh on him enough that he had to remind himself in multiple ways constantly there was never enough of it?
“I asked you to be here at eight.”
“It’s eight thirty,” I answered. “What’s the difference? I thought I could take you out to breakfast. As a peace offering for Friday.”
My son’s glare deepened further—he was clearly not ready to hear or take an apology, and for the second time, I saw how deep his anger ran.
“I asked you to come at eight because I have a meeting scheduled at eight-thirty,” he bit out. “And I have too much work today to take time out for breakfast. I can’t just saunter in here whenever I want—things have to get done.”
As if on cue, someone knocked on the door. Paul’s gaze flicked over my shoulder, and he waved the person in.
“Mr.—” the employee who stepped in looked between Paul and me, clearly confused as to which Mr. Finlay to address.
“Dan, come in.” Paul waved me to move so he could see the employee. The kid was young, standing there, shifting on his feet, his fingers dancing on the legs of his pants as though he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Finlay?” The employee had finally settled on my son as the correct Mr. Finlay to address.
“Dan, I have a few messages and complaints here that say those end-of-the-year reports aren’t in yet.”
My son’s tone didn’t have the same coldness as when he had been talking to me, but I heard an edge to it. The employee seemed to hear it, too, because his fingers took up a faster pace.
“I’m working on them right now, Mr. Finlay. They’ll be in next week. I promise.”
“But next week isn’t last week, is it?” Paul’s gaze settled on the young man without blinking.
“No, sir, but I’ve had so many reports to do, and I’ve been sick—”
A sharp shake of my son’s head cut the employee off.
“We’ve had this discussion before, Dan, and I don’t want to hear any excuses. I need those reports by Friday at the latest, or I’m afraid I will have to let you go.”
The young man’s eyes widened, and he fumbled for words, but Paul cut him off again.
“I mean it, Dan. Friday at the latest—”
“Dan, is it?”
Both pairs of eyes moved to me, both wide, but with different reactions—one surprised and one unhappy at the interruption. The young man nodded.
“Don’t worry about the reports. I’m sure you’ll get them in when you can. I’ll vouch for you.”
The employee’s eyes widened further. “Th-thank you, Mr. Finlay.”
I nodded and waved him out, watching as he nearly speed-walked away from the office. I could see the sweat stains under the arms of his blue button-down. I shook my head, chuckling, only to come face to face with a seething Paul. He had gotten to his feet and was leaning over his desk like a big cat, ready to pounce.
