He winces. “I’d rather sit on a commercial flight. In the back, like a peasant next to the bathroom. And a woman holding a crying baby.”
Sometimes he’s so dramatic and silly.
I tilt my head. “I think it’s time to get down to business. And let my dad and others know who is in charge here.”
He taps away on his phone and then smirks at me. “Board meeting is scheduled. They’re all going to lose it.”
Yeah. New York is going to be interesting.
20
Cal
I walk through the lobby,and it doesn’t take long to spot him. I knew he’d be staying at the Five-Star Grand Palm of Coconut Beach. It’s where the rich come to play and stay. And it’s exactly what you’d expect. High-end and beautiful, and nothing ever looks out of place.
I don’t mind The Grand Palm. In fact, I worked here in high school on their maintenance crew, and I’m still good friends with a lot of the staff. This is where my mother worked when she met my father. And growing up, knowing she worked here, and he was a guest who treated her poorly, never landed well for me. It’s not that I don’t like people who have money. It’s that I don’t like people who treat others badly just because they have money.
When Wilby said he could find out who my father was, part of me was curious. But part of me doesn’t want to know. What would it change? I’ve had good people in my life like Jonah, and I don’t need someone who doesn’t care about my mother or me. Knowing who that man is changes nothing. He did what he did. He left.
So, people who have money don’t bother me. Never have. I know who I am and how I show up for the people that I love.
Charles Montclair sits alone at the bar, jacket draped over the stool behind him. He has one elbow planted on the immaculate bar and another wrapped around a glass of bourbon. His jaw is tight, and he looks pissed as hell.
I know a little bit about Charles. I Googled him before I came over here because, unlike him, I show up for meetings with knowledge of who I’m dealing with.
The bar sits just off to the right, dark wood and soft lighting, leather stools, and a long mirrored back wall that makes the whole place feel bigger than it already is. A muted golf tournament plays on the TVs, sound low, applause polite.
I take the stool next to him and sit.
The bartender looks at me curiously, and I order a bourbon too. Neat.
Charles doesn’t look over, not at first. He’s locked in on staring at his bourbon and probably contemplating how he’s lost control of everything in his life.
The bartender slides my drink across. I take a slow sip and let the silence stretch between us. I have no idea whether Charles knows who I am, but judging by his silence, probably not.
“Terrible swing,” I say casually, nodding to the TV.
Charles scoffs under his breath. “That’s because he isn’t adjusting his grip.”
I glance over at him and sip my bourbon. “Exactly.”
That earns me a look, and he assesses me. Then sips his bourbon again.
We drink in silence for another minute, and I wait.
“Are you a golfer?” he finally asks.
I chuckle and shake my head. “No. I hate golf.”
He sighs with relief. “I do, too. Stupid sport.”
“You know enough about it, though,” I joke.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I like it. Sometimes you have to play the game, you know? Play golf with other people and show up.”
We drink in silence for a few more minutes. He has no idea how accurate what he just said is.
“Vacation?” I ask finally. “Or business?”
