“Tate says you’re looking for a bar manager. Have you found one yet?”
“Not yet.” I glance at Tate, who’s obviously still reporting on me, and he meets my gaze without guilt.
A pause. “Anything I can do?”
“Nope.”
My dad nods to himself like he’s not surprised. “Well, you’ve always been independent.”
Rage throttles through my blood, collecting in my throat, squeezing tight.You made me that way,I want to scream.You gave me no choice. Depending on you was not an option.
It’s in the past, and I’ve learned my lesson. Need people and they won’t show up for you. Learn to rely on people and they’ll remind you why you shouldn’t.
I shift in my seat, eyes catching on something on my dad’s desk. On his keychain. A hockey stick. Painted blue and with his old jersey number painted in white andSHERIDANdown the side. From the messy lines, it’s clear a child made this.
Pain sears through me. Ross couldn’t summon the energy to care about me, but he has a dumb little keychain from some other kid? What other kid would he know well enough to have been gifted this?
Tate sits beside me in silence.
Oh.
His daughter. Ross is close with Tate. Of course he’d be like a grandfather to Bea.
Well, then.
I stand, keeping my emotions locked away, aware of Tate watching me. “I have work to do.” I nod at my father. “Thanks, Ross.”
I leave the office and don’t wait for Tate to follow. It isn’t until I’m out of the building, walking down the street to a coffee shop, when I realize I forgot to thank my dad for the clothes.
CHAPTER 21
TATE
Half an hour later,Jordan steps out of the elevator, wearing the clothes I bought her, carrying two coffee cups.
The guilt at lying about who paid for the wardrobe grinds in my gut, but she’d never accept it if she knew the truth.
She pays her bar staff well, Dr. Greene told me. Full benefits, even if they’re part-time. Vacation pay. The rent is expensive. She probably takes almost no salary, judging by the apartment she was living in.
The team could have set her up with living accommodations at a moment’s notice.I shouldn’t have offered her a place to stay. Jordan is a grown woman who can take care of herself.
She strides into my office, looking like a million bucks in that outfit. I feel better keeping an eye on her, and I like providing her with things more than I should.
“Brought you something,” she says, setting one of the cups on my desk, and something in my chest jumps with excitement.
“Ah.” I sit back and give her the calm expression that pisses her off. “I was just thinking I could go for one of those toothpaste drinks.”
Her nails are a rich violet today, the same color as one of the bras the stylist picked out for her.
Do you have anything in mind?The stylist had asked on the phone.
Something that makes her feel sexy and beautiful,I said without missing a beat.
The image of her dainty finger holding up those panties flashes into my head and I push it away for the tenth time since I woke up, hard and aching and thinking about her sleeping fifty feet away.
Not appropriate. None of this is appropriate.
Her mouth tightens and her eyes sparkle like she’s doing everything she can not to laugh. “I wanted to say thank you for arranging for my things to be brought over. And for letting me stay in the guesthouse.”
