“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I knew you’d be here.”
He sounded tired and looked it too. But of course he knew where to find me. I might not be under his thumb anymore, but I was still predictable.
“You ignored my call earlier?”
“I was busy.”
“Celebrating?”
“Working,” I said.
“With Cory Callahan.”
I nodded.
“How did you get that job?” he asked.
“I interviewed for it,” I said.
My dad sighed, tilting his head to the side like he was trying to decide if I was being deliberately obtuse or not. That was me, I wagered, his problem son.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Marshall introduced us,” I muttered.
“Covington?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would he do that?” my dad asked, brow arched in accusation more than question.
I would have rather talked to him about the win, would have rather listened to him berate my ideas for being too ahead of their time, would have rather done anything than explain to my dad my relationship with his biggest business rival.
“What is your deal with him?” I asked instead, pushing my sandwich toward the middle of the table. I no longer wanted to take Marshall here. I wanted to find a new place to celebrate my wins.
“He’s arrogant.”
“Rightfully so,” I shot back.
“He’s always been entitled. Walking around like he’s a gift to this industry. Even when he was in school, he was a prick about it.”
“He was a prick about being talented?” I furrowed my brow at my dad. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“He’s never had to work hard.”
I wiped my hands off on my napkin, then smoothed it back neatly over my lap. “I find that hard to believe. He’s good at what he does and only part of that comes naturally.”
“And what does he do, Silas?” The accusation was there, right on the tip of his tongue.
“I was talking about work. You know what I meant.”
“You know whatImeant,” he said.
Sighing, I stared across the table at my dad, the lines around his eyes and the defeat in his posture.
“This is about more than work, isn’t it?”
