You still awake, pretty girl?
I smile before I can stop myself. I guess Vancouver can wait a little longer. For now, maybe this—whateverthisis—can be enough.
CHAPTER 29: ALEX
The call comes in just after noon.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
I’m standing in the middle of the space that’s supposed to become Northern Flame, phone buzzing in my hand, dust floating in the air where sunlight cuts through the front windows. The place still smells like old wood and something stale I haven’t been able to identify yet. It’s empty except for me and our contractor, who stepped out ten minutes ago to take his own call.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Chet Harrington.
I haven’t heard from my father since the finale aired.
That’s not unusual. Silence and avoidance have always been his default setting unless he needs me to do something for him. Praise, when it comes, is doled out in rations.
The phone buzzes again, and this time I answer.
“Chet,” I drawl sarcastically, balancing the phone on my shoulder. “To what do I owe this immense pleasure?”
There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough that I wonder if the connection dropped.
“Alexander.”
Same dry greeting as always. If my tone gets under his skin at all, he isn’t letting it show. He almost sounds bored, like we’ll just be discussing a casual business arrangement instead of the last ten weeks of my life and what it means for my future.
“Hey,” I shift my weight and run a finger through the dust collecting on a nearby windowsill just to give me something to do with my hands. “What’s up?”
“I watched the season. Finale included.”
Finally, it’s been out for a couple of weeks at this point.
I let out a breath through my nose. “Yeah?”
“You handled yourself well.”
I nod to myself, knowing he can’t see it. “Thanks.”
Another pause. Papers shuffle faintly on his end. I picture him at his desk at Harrington Group HQ, perfectly organized, pen lined up parallel to the edge, everything in its place.
“You did exactly what I needed you to do.”
I push my free hand through my hair, staring at my reflection in the hazy window. This is about as close to approval as it gets with my father. While we don’t exactly have a close relationship, hearing that I did well hits me square in the chest.
“Even though I didn’t win?”
“Yes.” He says without hesitation. “You won them over just like we needed you to. Viewers, judges, sponsors. The exposure alone—”
“I know,” I cut in sharply, before I can stop myself.
Silence meets me from the other end of the line.
I close my eyes briefly, pressing my thumb against the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. I just… yeah. I get it.”
There’s a shift in his tone when he speaks again. Not warmer necessarily, because Chet Harrington doesn’t dowarm, but it’s far less clipped now than it usually is.
