by Kris Jayne
God, and I thought Marisa was trying to keep the family together. She’s the one who broke it apart in the first place.
My mind whirled, but I refused to let any of that show. I didn’t trust Marisa, and I didn’t trust this Carter either.
Chapter 16
Delilah
“Knock knock.”
Still stunned from Carter’s news, I turned toward Griffin’s voice streaming from the doorway.
Carter jerked around. Griffin’s eyes flicked between us and narrowed.
“Sorry it took me so long. I got waylaid by Jim in finance. He personally wanted to catch me up on the news around here for the last six years. I see you’ve met Carter.”
I stood and crossed my arms, pushing them against my chest as if that might still my rage-thundering heart. “Carter was catching me up on some things as well. The three of you went to college together.”
“Three?” Griffin’s voice fell off a cliff into a tremulous question.
“You, Marisa, and Carter.”
Griffin paled. “Yes, we did.”
“Well,” the other man broke in, “I’ll leave you to it. It was a wonderful meeting you, Delilah. Say hello to your husband for me.”
“Ex-husband,” I replied reflexively, unable to get angry about the remark with my fury at Griffin consuming me.
Executive VP Carter’s angular face shifted to disgust when he regarded Griffin on his way out the door. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it, but I think he even dipped a little at the knee in a mock bow before he fled the tension crawling up the walls of the office.
Griffin shut the door behind him.
There was no point in waiting.
“He was telling me how you and Marisa were homecoming king and queen and quite the couple.”
“Look, Delilah, I was going to tell…”
“Stop.” My breath came in gasps, and I held up my hand. “You didn’t think that that was something I should know? That you and Marisa were once a couple? You should have told me before I came here. Before she was all fake smiles and welcoming last night. Every single time I tried to say you should get over your dad marrying a younger woman and reconcile—at no point through any of that, could you have told me that you once fucked that woman?”
I kept my voice just below a scream. The last thing I wanted was random people hearing me getting all angry black woman in his gleaming, high-rise office.
Griffin’s volume slid lower than mine, insistent and defeated at the same time. “It is the single most embarrassing fact of my life. Saying it out loud still makes me feel sick to my stomach. And I wanted to tell you a thousand times. I couldn’t get the words out even though I knew this moment was coming.”
He swept a hand through his hair and continued, “The last thing I wanted was for you to feel sorry for me.”
Knowing how much this betrayal plagued him poked a tiny hole in my anger, but it didn’t deflate. “I smiled at that woman and told her, ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure Griffin doesn’t hate you as much as you think he does.’ She pretended to be so sad and so fucking grateful.” I closed my eyes cross referencing my memory of that conversation with what Carter Cross had told me.
“She can be very convincing.”
I massaged the growing throb at my temples with my fingertips, wishing I hadn’t pulled my hair into a tight bun this morning. “It all looks different now. She’s still sidling up next to you, and I excused the whole thing because I thought she was just trying to bring the family together. And I’m pushing you, and you don’t tell me shit.” I felt the rage rise again. “She wants you.”
Griffin shook his head. “She wants something. But it’s not me. She’s never really wanted me. Money. Status. Position. Not me.”
The bitterness in his voice clenched my fists. I took a deep breath to steady myself and fell back against the edge of the desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said and rubbed his eyes. His dry laugh came out almost like a cough. “I did tell you once. When I was first here in the hospital with my dad and we were videocalling. The line broke up. I thought you heard, then I realized you didn’t. I was going to tell you yesterday, but you got that phone call. Every time, it just felt like a blessing to not to have to see the pity in your eyes, or feel the shame of it all over again.”
I sighed, feeling as sorry for him as he was afraid that I might. “I want you to trust me—even with the shitty things.”
He stepped to me and put his hands gingerly on my shoulders. When I didn’t pull away, he stroked down my arms and gripped my hands.
“I do trust you. I think maybe it’s myself I don’t trust.”
Panic seized my spine from my neck to my tailbone. It was clear to me now that Marisa was playing games, and that she had her eyes on Griffin. It seemed impossible that he might still want this woman after all she’d done. But then, it seemed impossible that after all this time, his fear, shame, and irritation were as heightened as ever.
He still had feelings for her.
Maybe they were all negative, maybe they weren’t.
“What do you mean you don’t trust yourself?” I asked.
“I trust you,” he repeated. “I trust your understanding and your insight. This whole thing is so messy. In my mind, I think I had a fantasy about being here, working things through with my dad, helping him sort out his transition plans, spending time with Grace and Gregory Jr., and then slipping away without having to deal with Marisa.”
It wasn’t an answer to my question, but I let that matter drop. “That would be easier, but that’s not possible.”
“I like easier,” he said, “and I seem to keep finding impossible.”
“That’s life,” I clipped.
“That’s my least favorite part of life.”
“It’s reality, Griffin.” Frustration sharpened my tone, but I took his face in my hands and pulled him closer.
“I still don’t like it,” he grumbled.
Well, grow up. The words echoed in my head, but I didn’t say them out loud.
Griffin’s wishful thinking was uncomfortable enough for both of us.
Chapter 17
Griffin
Since Delilah was leaving early to fulfill her daughter’s request to visit her mother in Asheville, I woke up even earlier to make sure we had time to talk. Last night’s dinner had been a stilted affair with me apologizing again for not telling her about Marisa, and her claiming she understood, which I think she did, and that it was fine, which I knew it wasn’t. Other than her denials, she hadn’t said much.
Today had to be better. I couldn’t let another night pass where we barely talked. Plus, it was Valentine’s Day.
“What time do you think you’ll be back?” I asked.
She threw a water bottle in her giant purse and bit her lip, thinking. “Oh, maybe six-ish at the latest. I’ll drive back right after lunch.”
I thought she might end up spending more time there. Maybe her mother might show her around, but Delilah was treating this lunch like a root canal—unpleasant, painful, and necessary. I knew that feeling, and I didn’t want to step in it again regarding my own family troubles.
“Don’t eat too much. I’m preparing you a Valentine’s Day feast.”
She gave me a concerned look. “If you buy the food, I don’t mind cooking when I get home.”
“No. You’re always cooking for me. I got this,” I assured her.
The dubious slant to her eyebrow only increased. “What are you making?”
“It’s a surprise. Don’t worry. I have a plan.”
“You have a plan?”
Her doubt of my ability spurred a desire to prove her wrong. “Believe it or not, yes. I’m going to rock your taste buds, lady. No doubts.”
I eased beside her and knocked her hip with mine, which might have been the closest contact we’d had in the last twenty-four hours. There’d been a cold stretch of sheets between us in bed last night. Tonight, that got fixed, and it started with dinner.
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My father’s housekeeper had given me a detailed plan on how to pull together my menu of seared duck breast with cherry compote, mashed potatoes, and, because I loved them so much when Delilah made them for Christmas, Brussels sprouts with bacon. All I had to do was get to the store after a brief morning meeting with Dad and Carter, collect the ingredients, and go step by step. I might not be a chef, but I knew how to follow instructions.
“Okay. I have faith in you,” she said, hip-knocking me back and lifting her bag. “I better get going.”
I grabbed her arm. “Wait. Kiss?”
Her hesitation came and went quickly, but the pause bruised me. The friction of our lips intensified the sting. I wanted to crawl back in time and grab any of the dozen opportunities I’d had to tell her the truth. I couldn’t fix that, but I could move forward as long as she wanted to come with me.
“Your faith is not misplaced,” I said.
“Rock my taste buds, huh?”
“Girl, I’m going to rock everything.”
“Promises, promises.”
Her light, easy laugh gave me hope, so I kissed her again, lingering over the taste of her.
“Drive safe. Text me when you get there. It’s going to snow a little today.”
“The weather is supposed to clear, and I don’t think it’s heading west.”
“Please, just text me.”
She smiled. “Will do.”
Then, she was out the door.
When I arrived at Dad’s house, a dark blue Audi was parked in the driveway collecting a light dusting of snow. Its driver still sat in the front seat. He and I had a pattern for the past few weeks. If Carter beat me to the house, he would wait in his car until I started walking up the sidewalk.
Today, I lingered in my car to see if he’d really just sit there, hiding, until I went in with him. Since he was so keen on revealing my secrets, I figured I was entitled to one of his. Sure enough, I fiddled around for nearly five minutes, and so did he. Then, I opened my car door a few inches. His head turned as if he were looking in his rearview mirror. I closed the door and waited another thirty seconds. He stayed glued to his surveillance until I got out, then he gathered his things and exited his car.
“Why do you wait until I get here to go inside? It’s freezing out here, and I guarantee you Marisa has your coffee waiting for you just the way you like it,” I said.
A quick scowl slid back to his usual impassive expression. He bunched the edges of his coat together in his fist. “I was on a call.”
“Every time, you get here before I do? You could take your calls inside where it’s warm,” I suggested.
“I have a heater in my car.”
I eyed him and smirked. What was he afraid of?
“Do you want to argue or get inside?” Carter huffed, and we hustled to the porch.
The door swung open before I could put my key in the lock, and we found ourselves face to face with Peggy, my father’s long-time housekeeper.
“I don’t know why you two would be hovering outside on a day like this. Get in here,” she commanded. “Let me take your coats. Mr. Kelso will be down in a minute. Mrs. Kelso is out, but I’ve already put coffee and tea in the office.”
Carter relaxed noticeably at the news Marisa wasn’t home. The guy spent a lot of energy avoiding my father’s wife, and I wondered why.
We settled in, and Carter popped open his laptop while I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“Have you ever thought about working somewhere else?” I asked.
He peered up over his screen, uncrossed his legs, and recrossed them the other way. “Of course. I’ve had offers.”
“So why stay here?”
“I know the business inside and out. I enjoy real estate and making deals. I like construction. A lot of my friends work in pure finance, moving money around on ledgers. I like the physicality of seeing a building go up.”
“There are other construction companies. Bigger ones. Ones that aren’t anchored in a family business. Dealing with these Carolina good ol’ boys can’t be fun for you,” I said, gauging the minute reactions in his face.
“It’s not,” he finally admitted.
“So why stay?”
“Your father gave me a chance. He’s always had my back. I respect him. Having a boss you respect and who trusts you isn’t an easy thing to walk away from.”
“Even for bigger deals and bigger paydays?”
“It’s not all about money,” Carter asserted.
“No, it’s about tradition. That’s what some of the board and some of our business partners say. They want to hold on to tradition. They don’t see you as part of that tradition—no matter how long you work here. That has to pick at you.”
Carter’s eyes darkened, and the line of his mouth thinned. “I don’t need you to explain racism to me, Griffin. I’m aware.”
I held up a hand in surrender. “I’m not trying to tell you something you don’t know. I just don’t understand why you want to stay here so badly.”
“Where exactly am I going to go where it’s going to be substantively different? Back home to Texas? Up north somewhere? It’s the same mix attitudes here or anywhere. The accents are just different.”
“And here, at least, you have my dad,” I said.
“Yes. He does treat me as close to family as I could expect.”
“Better even,” I said, staring directly at him.
“You don’t look like you have it so bad. Your name gets you great jobs. You have capital to start your own business. Connections. Influence. It’s difficult to feel as sorry for you as you feel for yourself.”
A surge of indignation rose up, nearly taking me to my feet, but I calmed. “Well, that’s the most honest thing you’ve every said about me—at least to my face. Terrence Johnston had all kinds of thoughts about me, and we hadn’t even met.”
“I knew the Johnstons growing up. Terrence is a good friend.”
“Yet, you’d never met his wife.”
“I was actually at their wedding, but so were two hundred others. She probably doesn’t remember me.”
“That has to sting. You seem pretty used to being memorable.”
Carter smiled. “You think I’m a prima donna.”
“I wouldn’t use that term.”
“Asshole?”
“That one either. You’re arrogant and smug and enjoy attention. I can only imagine that’s why you loved telling Delilah about me and Marisa.”
Carter’s smile faded. “I assumed she already knew. I wouldn’t have thought you’d bring her here without telling her. Everyone around here knows the story. I just got to her first. She could have been really embarrassed by one of these good ol’ boys or their wives. Do you think she deserves that?”
I wasn’t going to let him lecture me—even if he had a point. “Of course not. I would have told her before we socialized with anyone.”
“I’m surprised she’s still here. Or that you are.” Carter gave an uncharacteristic snort.
“Delilah understands how difficult it is for me to be here dealing my father and Marisa. She’s made of stronger stuff than to run away because she’s disappointed,” I said.
“Lucky you. She’s going to need a lot of whatever that is.”
I pitched forward to the edge of my seat. “This is the end of your commentary on my relationship with Delilah. You don’t know anything about what goes on between us, and it’s none of your fucking business.”
Carter waved his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were so serious about her.”
I heard Dad’s voice rumbling from the hallway, so I widened my knees to lean closer over the coffee table and lowered my voice. “You don’t think I’m serious about anything, and one of these days, underestimating me is going to get your teeth knocked down your throat.”
Carter’s nervous eyes went to the door. “I’m not trying to fight in your dad’s house. I apologize if I went too far.”
I ma
naged to straighten in my seat as Dad caromed in full of more energy than I’d seen him have since I’d gotten back to North Carolina. I could kick myself for getting sidetracked from angling the conversation toward the topic of Carter and Marisa. Now, Dad was anchored in his massive wingback chair and launching into news of landing a construction deal in Florida. That line of questioning would have to wait.
Carter left to go into the office, and Dad moved to his massive desk as I gathered up my papers to leave.
“I like this,” he said.
“What?” I slid my pen into my portfolio and stood.
“Being here with you and Carter. Working on projects. Just having you all around. I wish you could stay a little longer.”
“I’ve agreed to support Carter as your successor, Dad, but after that, there’s nothing else for me to do for KCRE.”
“No. Not that. I mean just your being here. You can run a business here as well as you can run it from Dallas.”
“My home is there, and so is Delilah’s. She has her own business and her own clients. I feel guilty enough for having her here helping me.”
Dad grinned. “I like her. She’s smart.”
“Yes.”
“And pretty,” he added.
“She’s beautiful.”
He nodded with a self-satisfied grin. “You’re in love with her.”
I swiped my hand down my face. Was I?
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Every time I thought about the future, my vision had her in it, and all I wanted to do is make sure that happened.
“Yeah. Probably.” I smiled.
“I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.”
“She is older.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay with not having children?”
“Everyone seems very concerned with whether my sperm will find a home.”
Dad grimaced. “I wasn’t giving consideration to your sperm. I was talking about babies.”
“You do know how that works, right?”
He smirked. “I suppose I should be glad that we’re able to joke about this rather than be horrified by the vulgarity of this conversation.”