“Then why are you smiling?” Paris pressed, relentless in her five-year-old logic.
“I’m just having a good morning,” I said, my voice coming out too high, too defensive. “Can’t I just have a good morning?”
Shelly stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “Who wants pancakes? I’m making pancakes. Blaze, Fury, come help me mix the batter. Paris, you too. I need someone to crack eggs.”
“But I want to know why Mom’s?—”
“Pancakes. Now.” Shelly’s tone left no room for argument. “With chocolate chips. But only if you help.”
Paris slid off her chair with obvious reluctance, shooting me one last suspicious look before following Shelly to the counter. Within moments, Shelly had kids arguing over who got to pour what, Fury “helping” by getting flour everywhere.
I excused myself and escaped down the hallway, ending up in Marco’s office.
I needed to distract myself. Stop thinking about tonight. Stop checking the clock every five minutes like a teenager.
I settled into the chair behind his desk—my chair now, I supposed—and pulled the Scottish manufacturing files from my briefcase. Concrete things I could control. Patrick’s connections had given me some time to prove myself to the board.
I spread the documents across the desk, reviewing the letter of intent from Duncan. The terms were good—better than good, actually. If I could convert these into actual contracts, it would be the proof Arthur and his supporters needed to see that I could lead this company.
I was making notes on my Palm Pilot when the door opened.
“So, tell me.”
I jumped, nearly dropping the device. Michael stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that big brother expression I’d known my entire life.
“Jesus, Michael. Knock.”
“The door was open.” He came in and leaned against Marco’s bookshelf, studying me with those knowing eyes. “Why are you so happy?”
I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“The kids are right. You’ve been smiling all morning. And humming.” His expression was gentle but relentless. “What’s going on, Tess?”
Heat crept up my neck. “I’m not allowed to be happy? That’s suspicious now?”
“After three and a half months of watching you barely keep your head above water? Yeah, it’s a little suspicious.” He moved closer, his voice softening. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just asking what changed.”
I set down my Palm Pilot harder than necessary. “Did Shelly not tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That I’m going out with Patrick McCrae tonight.” The words came out defensively, almost challenging.
Michael’s eyes widened. “The guy from the conference?”
“Yes. The man with the Scottish manufacturing connections. The connections that are the only reason Arthur didn’t succeed in pushing me out.” I was talking too fast, the words tumbling over each other. “We’re having dinner. To discuss the partnership.”
“To discuss the partnership?” Michael repeated.
“That’s what I said.”
“Right. And that’s why you’ve been giddy like a teenager since breakfast.”
I looked down at my hands, at the wedding ring. “It’s not—it’s more complicated than that.”
Michael pulled out the chair across my desk and settled into it. “Then uncomplicate it for me.”
“He asked me to dinner. Not just as a business contact. As a person.” My voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “And I said yes.”
