I checked the time—nearly ten.
The post-wedding brunch would be winding down.
I needed to make an appearance at the farewell gathering on the terrace, say my goodbyes to John and his daughter, then I could leave.
Three hours until my driver arrived.
Three hours to maintain the façade that nothing had changed.
Three hours to avoid Savannah Blake and the impossible pull she exerted even now.
My phone rang—Miles.
I considered ignoring it, but that would only delay the inevitable.
"Miles," I answered, keeping my voice neutral.
"Dad, where'd you disappear to?" He sounded irritated. Entitled. The tone that had increasingly characterized our interactions over the past few years.
"I had calls to return," I lied smoothly.
"The Madison Street project doesn't run itself."
The pointed reminder of the project he'd nearly tanked had the desired effect.
"Right. About that—can we meet before you head back to SF? There are some details we should discuss."
Translation: he needed me to clean up another one of his messes.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginning of a tension headache.
"My driver's coming at one. Meet me in the hotel bar at eleven."
"Great." A pause.
"I invited Savannah to dinner on Tuesday after the strategy meeting. Her marketing insights would be valuable for Westlake."
My grip tightened on the phone.
"Is that wise? You mentioned you'd broken up quite a while ago."
“Over a year ago. Ancient history."
The dismissive certainty in his voice grated. "Besides, she's the best at what she does. We need her expertise."
The best at what she does.
The echo of my thoughts about a very different area of expertise made me close my eyes briefly.
"Your personal history doesn't complicate things?" I kept my tone professional, detached.
Miles laughed.
"Not at all. Savannah's practical. She knows we make sense professionally, even if the timing wasn't right for us before."
Practical.
Clinical.
