by Amelia Wilde
“Dad?” She says the word low and urgent into the phone, then straightens her back, raising one hand to grip the handle of her bag. “Darla.” I step back toward the door as soundlessly as I can on the plush carpeting, because she’s clearly forgotten that I’m here. Listening in is a violation at this point. The last thing I hear as I step across the threshold is, “Is he stable now? No—Darla, I’m working that out. I need to know—”
I move back down the hallway, heading for the podium as soon as I’m back in the lobby. This doesn’t sound like the kind of conversation that ends in Juliet having lunch with me. Not in the slightest. Meghan looks at me with concern in her eyes. “Everything all right, Mr. Grant?”
“I’m not sure. Would you mind having the kitchen wrap up a couple of Moroccan spiced lamb plates?”
Meghan gives me a serious nod, like I’ve given her the most important mission in all of New York City. She heads swiftly into the restaurant, making a beeline for the kitchen. She reappears less than five minutes later, two black bags with The Lounge in small silver print on the sides. She’s handing me my card back when Juliet bursts in from the hallway and moves directly to the entrance without breaking her stride. She doesn’t even glance in my direction.
I give Meghan a hasty thank you and follow Juliet out onto the street. She’s already at the curb when I get to her side, scanning the traffic for an available cab.
“I’m sorry.” She glances over once to make sure it’s me, then turns her focus back to the traffic. “I can’t have lunch.”
“I see that. Where are you going?”
“My dad—” She shakes her head. “You don’t need to know about any of this. I have to go.”
“Juliet.” She doesn’t look at me, her body tensing, getting ready to throw her arm out and hail a cab. It’s taken. It’s lunch hour in Manhattan, and there aren’t many cabs to be found. “Juliet.”
The insistent tone makes her whirl around to face me, her violet eyes wide, sharp. “I really have to go.”
“I can take you.”
“There is no possible way on earth that you have time to take me to Forest Hills.”
“Yes, I do. Come on. Get back in the car.”
She hesitates for a split second. “It’s a forty-minute drive there. Maybe more, if traffic—”
“Watch this.” I yank my phone out of my pocket and dial my lead executive assistant, who picks up on the first ring with a crisp, Hello, Mr. Grant. “Cancel all my meetings for this afternoon. Fit them in tomorrow and Wednesday.” Then I hang up.
Juliet bites her lip and says absolutely nothing for another long moment, a battle waging behind her eyes. I don’t know what the hell it’s about—she took a ride from me to go to lunch, so I’m not sure why Forest Hills is so different, but Juliet is holding herself stiffly above it as long as she can.
It’s not long.
Then her shoulders drop an inch. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I let her get into the car first, sliding in beside her and pulling the door shut hard behind me. “Forest Hills, Dave.” I put the bags on the seat next to me and turn back to Juliet, who’s sitting up straight, eyes on the road in front of us, chin held high. “You can tell me what’s going on while we drive, Juliet James.”
11
Juliet
Weston’s eyes are steady, trustworthy somehow, but I can feel the wall rising in my chest, enveloping my heart so none of the panic can squeeze out. The last thing I want to do is to tell him about my dad. The last thing I want is for him to feel sorry for me. I don’t need him to feel sorry for me, to pity me, and I don’t need his help.
I don’t need his help dealing with the situation, at least. I’d have hailed a cab if he hadn’t offered the ride. I was going to, anyway, but he seemed so insistent—
It’s one ride, I tell myself, even though it’s as much one ride as the meal we were about to have was just lunch. There’s always an undercurrent with him, and there’s one right now, zinging through my heart, laying waste to the defenses I’ve built up in order to get through these years.
He didn’t get where he is today by cancelling meetings over a strange woman’s emergency calls…
I search his eyes for a sign that this is another strategy, another page out of Weston Grant’s playbook, but his dancing green gaze is nothing but sincere.
I still can’t bring myself to do it. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Satisfy my morbid curiosity, then.” He narrows his eyes. “This is about your dad?”
My heart beats a little faster. “How much of that conversation did you hear?”
“I left right away. I might be very interested in you, Juliet James, but I’m not about to eavesdrop on your private conversations.”
Weston Grant is a playboy. Weston Grant goes through women like they’re dollar bills—thoughtlessly, without any one of them making an impact, without any of them meaning anything to him. Weston Grant came after me at the Rose, and he still hasn’t given up. I still can’t see how I’m any different than any of his other women—except for the fact that I turned him down twice—and yet he’s looking at me right now like I’m the most important person in the world, the only person in the world.
Jesus, it would be nice to tell someone about all this.
But there’s a huge part of me that’s sounding the alarm. Give him this, and you’re giving him leverage.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s for anyone—especially men—to have anything they can use against me. Especially a man like Weston Grant, who uses leverage without a shred of conscience to make money hand over fist.
I take a deep, steadying breath. We’re in his car, and the breath I take is filled with the clean scent of his skin and the expensive fabrics touching his body where I wish I could lay my hands. My heart thunders against my rib cage.
Dave is navigating the car through traffic with an expert hand, and in the silence while Weston waits for my answer, he drops a single question into the air. “What’s the address, Miss James?”
The absurdity of it all—being in Weston Grant’s car, being called Miss James by a driver—makes a giggle bubble up in my chest, but I swallow it back down and reel off the address for my dad’s retirement home, which doubles as a nursing home. Weston’s eyes burn into me as I say the words, his gaze so hot and focused that when I’ve finished speaking, I can’t do anything but lean back against the seat and look into his eyes.
“I don’t recognize the address.” His tone is soft, hardly coaxing, but I answer him anyway.
“It’s my father’s retirement home. A place called Overbrook Heights.”
Weston’s forehead wrinkles. “Is he all right?”
I sigh, the blood pulsing faster in my veins. “I think so. I don’t know. I won’t know until I get there. There’s no telling—” I break off, a lump rising in my throat. My dad is too young to be in this kind of retirement home, but after the brain injury, there was nowhere else willing to take him that wasn’t also essentially a prison for the elderly. The staff at Overbrook are among some of the best I can afford.
By the skin of my teeth.
That won’t be the only topic of discussion once I arrive, either. There are overdue bills to be paid, because two months ago I had to move out of the apartment I shared with three roommates when the entire building got shut down when they failed—hard—an asbestos inspection, among other things. Now I’m living in a studio the size of a closet that’s a little closer to work and Anderson, but with the security deposit and down payment....
Darla Detlowe, the head administrator, is going to want to discuss my plans for payment. I’ve been taking every possible shift at the Rose. I’ve been collecting every possible tip. But I don’t know that she’ll be satisfied with that answer.
Another shiver runs through me. “There’s no telling how he’ll be.” Then another horrifying thought flashes into my mind. “You’re not coming in.”
Weston’s eyes go bright at the
sentence, like he’s been challenged. I should have known better. “You seem upset, Juliet. I don’t want you to face whatever this situation is by yourself.”
A twist of anger tightens my gut. “I can handle it, I promise you.” My tone is pure acid, but I can’t stop myself. “I’ve been handling it by myself for years.”
Weston shifts in his seat, getting closer instead of backing away. This man is relentless. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you can’t handle it.” I hate his even tone. I hate the way he apologizes so smoothly, his eyes still on mine, never wavering, never straying downward away from my face. I hate it, and yet I’m desperate to hear more, desperate for his voice to slide into my mind. “I meant that these things are easier when there’s someone standing by your side.”
“Oh? And you’re going to be that person for me?”
He cracks a smile—a gorgeous, radiant smile that I can’t for the life of me find a flaw in. “You’re in my car. It would be convenient.”
“Aren’t you usually in the business of taking money from people instead of helping them?” I don’t know what comes over me, forcing the comment from my mouth.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I don’t agree with that assessment. I do make a hefty profit—that’s entirely true. But many, many people have benefitted from the work of Grant Pharmaceuticals.”
“I’m sure they have.”
“You’d be right.”
My shoulders have gone tight, the muscles tensed. With every block we get closer to Forest Hills, where Overbrook is, the more painful it gets. Chin up and get through it. I force myself to relax, which works, but only marginally. “You’re not the kind of man who takes no for an answer, are you?”
“Not usually, no.”
I close my eyes and take in another deep cleansing breath that does nothing to calm my nerves. This is why I should never have accepted his offer—any of them. I knew it then and I know it now.
But I’m not stupid. Flinging myself out of the car now would only cost me more time, and I’m already missing class as it is. “If you really feel you need to, you can come in with me.” I try to keep my tone in the range that says I’m deciding to let you do this instead of I’m giving in. “But I’m not introducing you to my father.”
12
Weston
“I’m so glad you’re here, Juliet.” The woman speaks as she’s barreling toward us in the lobby of what seems like a retirement home that Juliet can’t possibly afford. It’s nothing like what I was picturing, which was basically every dingy asylum I’ve ever seen in a movie. The lobby is spacious and clean, with tasteful furniture around its outer edges. “We need to talk.”
Juliet’s shoulders sag half an inch, but then she straightens up, head held high. “How is he, Darla?”
Darla is a dark-haired, no-nonsense woman in her sixties, and she’s wearing a flowered top that somehow looks sharp paired with black tailored slacks. Her hair is scraped back away from her face in a twist that wouldn’t go anywhere if a bomb fell on Forest Hills. She presses her lips together and meets Juliet’s gaze directly, no flinching away. “He’s calmed down considerably since we talked, and there aren’t any injuries that we can find.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Darla gives her another pointed look, but then decides better of saying whatever it was she was going to say. Her brown eyes meet mine. “Who’s this?”
I extend my hand without missing a beat. “Weston Grant.” Her dark eyes narrow, but her grip is confident and firm. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Grant.” I’m not sure if she recognizes me and doesn’t care, or if my identity doesn’t ring any bells, but she turns immediately back to Juliet. “Let’s step into my office. There are some things we urgently need to discuss, if Don is going to stay with us much longer.”
The set of Juliet’s jaw tells me that this is, in fact, the last thing she’ll be doing at this moment. “No. I need to see him first.”
“This will only take—”
“It’s not going to take a minute, Darla, and we both know it. I need to see my dad before we get into any of that.”
Darla takes in a breath through her nose and concedes with a nod under Juliet’s icy tone. Juliet has somehow remained cool and polite, even though I can see the tension vibrating through her muscles, and the way she stands so tall, making her look twice her height and a hundred times more intimidating, has me rock-hard. I had an inkling that this side of her existed at the Rose. Now it’s on full display, and I’m aching with the need to take her someplace where we can be alone and I can discover everything there is to know about her.
For starters.
Darla steps out of the way, and that gives me the opening I need to discreetly adjust myself. Keep it together, Grant. Juliet strides across the lobby the moment her path is clear, heading straight for a bank of two elevators. She stabs her finger into the call button, then takes a deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth.
“She’s a bulldog.” I murmur the words into her ear, and one corner of her mouth curls upward.
“She has her reasons. But after a call like that—” Juliet shakes her head as the elevator door slides open. She steps in first, waiting until I’m inside before she presses the button for the third floor. “After a call like that, I’m not going to sit down and discuss finances before I see for myself that he’s all right.” She bites her lip and her big violet eyes flick toward me as the elevator rises.
My heart rate has gone up at the tidbit of information that Juliet clearly didn’t mean to drop—but she’s sure as hell not going to expand on that any further. The elevator whisks us up to the third floor, and when it opens, she gets out and moves quickly down the carpeted hallway. It’s not nearly as plush as the carpet in the lobby—more industrial, probably easier to move medical equipment around on—but the atmosphere is more hotel than nursing home. No wonder Juliet wasn’t wasting any time at the Rose.
She pauses by a bench nestled between two planters. “You can wait here.”
I don’t push her. Not on this, not now. I take a seat on the bench and give her what I hope is a supportive grin.
She nods back, turning away, and I can’t help myself—I watch the unselfconscious swing in her hips as she moves three doors down, knocks gently on the metal surface disguised as wood, and steps inside.
“Dad? How are you doing? Darla gave me a call and said—”
“Don’t listen to that hag.” The gravelly voice that answers her is filled with venom. “They’ve had enough of me here. And that bastard Howard—” His voice cuts off abruptly. “You don’t need to worry yourself about any of that.” The shift in tone is sudden, like he’s realized that it’s Juliet in the room and not an adversary. “You should be doing better things with your life.”
“I don’t have anything better to do with my life, and you know it.” Juliet’s tone is calm, light, like she’s making a gentle joke. “Are you all right, Dad? I came here to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’ll keep my chin up. I’ll get through it.” Then his voice gets deadly serious. “You need to do the same, my girl. You can’t be rushing over here every time they decide I’m not a model citizen.”
“It sounded like there was some trouble with—”
“There was trouble.” The old man’s voice is rising again. “There was trouble, but I—” There’s a rattle like he’s brought his fist down on an end table. Then it’s pure anguish. “I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it, Juliet. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t know how—” He sucks in a breath, and then her voice is low and soothing, meeting his at every turn.
“They’re trying to help you, Dad.” She only raises her voice enough to compete with his, never to drown him out. “You’ve got to keep your chin up. I’m doing everything—”
“I know you are. I know.”
There’s a pause, and then the door quietly swings shut.
The moment it does, I stand up fro
m the bench and straighten my jacket. Maybe this is a fool’s errand. Maybe this is going to ruin my chances with Juliet. But I need to do something. I can’t sit here in the hallway like an abandoned bag and listen to this kind of conversation through the door without taking action.
Even if I shouldn’t.
Even if it’s the last thing I do for her.
I head for the elevator and press the call button. The door glides open right away—the car hadn’t even had time to reset.
I know what to do.
13
Juliet
Weston is nowhere to be found in the hallway when I come out of Dad’s room. My chest feels like it’s torn in half from balancing the pressure of maintaining a calm, collected front for my dad, even as the anxiety bubbled over in my gut. I know Darla wasn’t lying to me about what happened earlier—his meltdown in the common room, lashing out at the mild-mannered Mr. Howard, who usually plays checkers with him—and I could see in his face that he was still agitated. If it hadn’t been for that driver who had a cell phone plastered to her ear that brisk spring day when my dad was driving to the supermarket six months ago, this entire thing could have been avoided.
Though not completely, and I know that. Ever since Mom died two years ago, old age has swept over him in a way I could never have predicted. He’s only in his mid-sixties, but he seems much older.
My heart aches, and I raise a hand to my chest, as if pressing at my sternum can make any of it stop.
I don’t know where Weston went, but my guess is the lobby. If there’s any mercy at all left on the planet, he’s gone back to Midtown—or wherever it is he lives—and left me to face Darla on my own.
She’s not waiting in the lobby. She’s far too busy to hang around waiting for me to get through visiting my dad, but I know where she’ll be. How many extra shifts will I need to work at the Rose to pay for all this? Hiring a private aide is probably out of the question, no matter what I tell her…at least, not until seven months from now, when my dad turns 65 and will finally be eligible for Medicare.