“And thank you for the dress,” she tells him, and my gut drops.
“The dress?” Ross looks confused.
“All of it.” She can’t even meet his eye. “Thank you.”
“All of it,” he echoes, not following. Ross gives me an odd look, but I stay very still. Off whatever he sees in my expression, he smiles a little. “Right. Yes. You’re welcome.”
Another silence lingers between the three of us. It’s my turn to stare at the floor and take a long sip of water.
“I was wondering if you’d like to—” Ross starts.
“I’m going to get another drink,” Jordan says abruptly, walking to the bar on the other side of the room, even though the one beside us isn’t busy.
“Well,” Ross says with a sigh as she leaves. “That went as expected.”
Frustration grows through my chest, tightening around my lungs. Ross wants nothing more than to patch things up with Jordan, but she won’t even give him the time of day. She’s like a brick wall. I think about how all-consuming parenthood is, how my child is everything to me, how she’s always on my mind, how I’d doanythingfor her.
I know Ross is the same. He doesn’t say it, but I know it’s true.
“Do I want to know what she’s talking about with the dress?” he asks.
“No. Excuse me,” I say, not looking at him, before I follow her.
It only takes me a few strides to catch up with her.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I say in her ear.
“No.”
“Too bad.” I wrap a hand around her small wrist and pull her aside, down a quiet hallway, before I face her. “That was rude.”
Her eyes flash with indignation. “Tate, butt out.”
“Your father gave you everything. Anyone would be thrilled to have a guy like him for a dad and yet you flip him the middle finger every chance you get.”
She lets out a harsh, unhappy laugh. “Mind your own business, Tate.”
It’s the same thing she said to me at Volkov and Dr. Greene’s vow renewal back in September, when she walked away from her father without a word.
My pulse races, a fast rhythm in my ears as I try and fail to control my emotions. What is it about Jordan Hathaway that sets my temper off like this?
“Ross loves you.” I don’t like how frustrated I sound. This isn’t who I am. “Every time you ignore him or walk away from him?—”
“Has he ever told you what happened?” She lifts her chin, looking up at me with those pretty indigo eyes with thick, dark lashes.
“He said you didn’t talk to him anymore. He said you wanted nothing to do with him.”
“But did he tell you what happened?”
“He said he made a mistake.” Years ago, when I joined the team and he asked me to check up on her. But he didn’t say what.
“He skipped my mom’s funeral.” She watches me. “Did he tell you that?”
A horrible feeling washes through me. “No, he didn’t.” He’d loved her. When she passed, he was devastated. I was in rehab at the time, but I could see it when he visited. He wasn’t himself for a long time after.
Still isn’t, I think.
“Of course he didn’t.” She presses her lips together, taking a deep breath. “I sat alone, at her funeral. And I sat by her bedside for the weeks that she was sick. He wasn’t there when she died. And guess what? Growing up? He wasn’t there either. He was playing hockey, or coaching hockey, or owning a team. He was onthe phone, or on his computer, working. He didn’t just miss her funeral, Tate. He missed my high school graduation. Birthdays. Every parent teacher conference. A lot of Christmases.”
