Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“You know nothing,” Brant ground out, still trying to squirm away. He was about my height and weight, but he had a minibar’s worth of alcohol running through his veins while white-hot fury ran through mine, so he was no match for me. “You have no idea what it’s like to have a father everyone thinks is so great at everything. Everything Thatcher Pennington touches turns to gold… except me. Maybe because he spent more time with his company than he did being a father.”
“Oh, please,” I sneered. “Did it ever occur to you that he was trying to give you stability and security? Huh? Did it? Jesus. Stop blaming your father’s mistakes twenty years ago for the choices you’re making today. He loves you, Brantleigh, and if you’re loved by Thatcher Pennington, that makes you the luckiest person in the goddamn universe. So stop throwing it away—”
“Hey!” Strong hands grabbed me from behind and pulled me off Brant. “Hey, hey. That’s enough.” Thatcher’s deep voice cut through the red haze of my anger. “Take a breath. What the hell’s going on here?”
“He’s drunk off his ass,” I accused, shaking Thatcher’s grip off me. “He tried to start a fight in the Tavern after spouting off a bunch of bullshit about you—and bullshit about Heather—to a reporter.” I thrust a hand toward the bar. “Chris Acton is in there.”
Brant snorted. “I didn’t tell him anything but the truth. And don’t think I missed the way you and that little reporter were getting cozy. Does your dad know you’re fucking—”
Now, it was Thatcher who got in Brant’s face. “Finish that sentence,” he growled, low and dangerous, “and it’ll be my arm across your throat.”
Thatcher’s words, the emotion behind them, and the intensity in his eyes shocked the hell out of me. I’d thought I’d seen Thatcher angry before, but this was different.
My hand snuck out to touch his back, to ground him somehow, but fortunately, I caught myself before I made contact because Layla scurried up at that moment with McGee jogging toward us, half a block behind her.
“Everyone calm down,” she instructed, hands out like a crossing guard. “Thatcher, I recognized a man from the Wall Street Journal heading this way. I think we need to—”
McGee arrived on the scene at the moment the Tavern door opened. The corner of the door caught him in the nose and forehead, and at the speed he was going, he practically bounced off, landing hard on his ass.
Layla gasped and glanced around in concern. Brant barked out a laugh that quickly turned into an annoying giggle. And poor Chris Acton dropped to his knees in an effort to help McGee after knocking him over with the door.
“I’m so sorry. Oh shit, oh fuck. I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking. I wouldn’t have—”
McGee tested his face with one large hand and reached the other out to grab Chris’s flailing arm before it could do more damage. “Peace. It’s okay.” His words came out muffled, which made sense when his nose began to pour blood. Thatcher met my eyes over their heads and tilted his chin toward the Tavern. I shook off my stupor and raced inside to get some napkins and ask Castor for help putting together a bag of ice.
When I returned with supplies, Chris was halfway onto McGee’s lap, holding a bandana to the bleeding nose while murmuring soft apologies, McGee’s eyes were riveted on Chris’s pink cheeks and bright eyes, Brant was still laughing and pointing at McGee, and Layla was quietly urging Thatcher to get the hell out of there before anyone else from the media showed up.
But Thatcher… Thatcher stood calmly in the center of the chaos, seeming not to hear Brant’s drunken laughter or Layla’s increasingly frantic pleas. In fact, he looked devoid of all emotion, as if his anger had hit the boiling point in a pressure cooker and simply… sealed the pot closed.
After handing off the napkins and ice, I took a step closer to Thatcher, but when he raised his eyes to mine, I saw all the emotion Thatcher had been hiding, a veritable cauldron of guilt and anger roiling just beneath his controlled exterior.
I sucked in a breath. How much of that anger was directed at me? I couldn’t even remember what I’d been saying before he’d pulled me off Brant—pulled me off his one and only son, who I’d been pinning up against the building like I was ready to knock him out.
A million apologies rose to my lips, but I choked them back. I wanted to explain, somehow, that I’d lost my temper and gotten careless because I couldn’t stand to hear the things Brant had been saying, but I didn’t. I wanted to tell Thatcher that I loved him and to thank him because his faith in me had helped me stand up to my parents the way I should have years ago, but I couldn’t do that either.