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)
“Thatcher, stop. What did he do?”
I gave her a quick recap, from my not-so-brilliant plan to have him work for me through my arrival at the Tavern. “He got drunk and spouted shit about me to a reporter. Things about Heather—”
“No!”
“Yes. And that’s not all. The head of HR sent me an email this afternoon stating that Brant was belligerent to the woman who called to complete his new hire paperwork. He was very upset to learn that he wouldn’t be earning six figures at his entry-level position, which may be what led him to get drunk off his ass before twelve o’clock. Thalia, be honest… does Brant have a substance abuse problem?”
“Not to my knowledge,” she said firmly. “What our son has is a lack of give-a-shit problem, and he’s been handed every opportunity to fix it—therapy, meditation retreats, admission to great schools, paid internships with incredible career potential—and he hasn’t taken advantage of any of them to build a life for himself.”
“I gave him too much stuff and not enough of my time,” I said softly.
“No. Look, I understand why you’re feeling guilt. I feel it, too. But you made every effort to spend time with him when he was growing up. You visited on his birthday, you took him on vacations, you made it to his graduations and sports events. Were you there every minute? No. Was I? Also no. We weren’t perfect parents because we’re not perfect people, and we’re still, to this day, sorting through the shit that our parents did to us.”
I huffed out a laugh. “I guess.”
“Brant wasn’t abused or neglected, physically or emotionally,” she went on. “And lots of people with bad parents turn out okay. Surely you know one or two.”
“Yeah.” I pulled a bottle of orange juice out of the drinks cooler and closed the door before moving slowly toward the front of the store. “In fact, Reagan Wellbridge—you remember he and Brant were in the same class at Grandview for a year or two?”
She hummed agreement.
“He grew up with wealthy parents. Trent and Patricia weren’t bad, but they also weren’t great. His father is a state senator and as obsessed with winning elections as I am with Pennington Industries. His mother’s involved in everything outside the house—committees, boards, directing Trent’s career…”
“And Reagan grew up okay?”
“Way better than okay. He’s amazing, Thalia. Smart, dedicated, kind, and hardworking. And despite his parents’ machinations and political aspirations, he’s managed to stay grounded. He’s been working at PennCo, and we’ve been traveling together on business. It’s been mind-blowing to see the way he interacts with people. And he has this amazing perspective on the world—”
“Whoa.”
“What?” I demanded, pausing beside a circular rack of postcards.
“It’s just… are you talking about a kid Brant went to school with or someone you’re involved with? Because you never so much as strung two adjectives together about Heather, and you for sure never went all dreamy-voiced when you talked about me.”
“I…” I licked my lips. I couldn’t bring myself to deny it, which was all the confirmation Thalia needed.
“Oh. Shit. You’re falling for a guy?” she breathed. “Well, damn. I owe Paul five hundred bucks.”
“You what? Hang on, you bet with your husband about…”
“Sort of? Not really. It was just a theory he had about why you dated women you didn’t seem to like very much. Something about you not allowing yourself to go after what you really want. But that’s not the point. Do your parents know about this? Shit, do his parents know?”
“No.” I all but shouted the word, then immediately lowered my voice. “No one knows. Hell, Thalia, I don’t even know how I feel about him.” I lifted a hand and sent the carousel of postcards spinning. “That’s a lie,” I admitted. “I… care about him. A lot. I want to be with him. I might even… feel more than that.”
“Meaning you’re in love with him?” Thalia’s normally clipped tone was gentle. “You can say the words, Thatcher. It’s okay. In fact, it’s more than okay—”
I snorted. “It’s really not. Jesus, not only is he beautiful and bright and young—Christ, so young—he’s my employee.”
“Circumstances,” she said flatly. “Excuses. Keep him around and he’ll get older. That’s how life works.”
“But how do I keep him around?” I demanded, because that was the crux of the damn problem. “I’ve been married twice. My first wife moved across the country to escape me—”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“—and my second wife cheated on me for most of our marriage. My only child will happily sell me out to reporters rather than talk to me when he’s unhappy. And I didn’t make it to my mother’s second birthday party this year because I couldn’t stomach the idea of flying out there—”
“I went,” she said in a bored voice. “You didn’t miss much. And I’m not understanding at all what this has to do with you and Reagan.”