I can do this.
I don’t need to make small talk. Just greet him. Avoid calling him Dad. And ask for my money. Simple as that, right?
I pick up the torn piece of paper from my bed with scribbles written across it and hold it in my hand. My nerves have a mind of their own right now, cold hands shaking uncontrollably.
I talk myself through even breaths, thankful to even come to a place where I have the optiontocall him. It seems knowing people of a much higher pay scale thanyou does have its perks. All it took was one call to my client, who works for the Forensic Investigators Unit here in Miami, and I had all the information I didn’t already know on Nathaniel McIntosh.
Age fifty-two. Married to Misty McIntosh. What kind of stripper name is that? One daughter—Emma McIntosh. Not a single trace of the daughter he abandoned, either, I see. Chief Operating Director of McIntosh Motors. I figured as much. You can’t build a multi-million-dollar empire overnight.
And written at rapid-fire speed is his office phone number.
555-616-8014 ext: 671
A knock on my bedroom door startles me, causing me to drop the phone. “Ah!”
“You call him yet? I can hear your stomach gurgling from here,” Betsy calls from the other side of the door. “Better get those nervous poops out now before dear ole Daddy doesn’t just hear his daughter’s voice for the first time in twenty-one years, but her shit hitting the toilet water, too.”
I grab the nearest thing I can find and launch it at the door. “Go away.”
The pack of gum hits the wood with hardly any force before falling to the floor. “Just call him, babe,” her voice projects just above a whisper. The silence in my room is deafening compared to my overactive heartbeat.
A small note slips under the door in true Betsy fashion, revealing one of her many well-rounded sides. I pick up the note and immediately feel the tension in my chest release.
You’re better than him. He never deserved you.
Do what you have to do.
But don’t forget who you are, Cove.
You’re a Davenport now.
He doesn’t get to take that from you.
Betsy’s compassion cancels out her crazy.
My best friend is a keeper, and thanks to her, I’m reminded of the main thing. Getting what I need and expecting nothing in return, because nothing is all he’s ever given me.
With rejuvenated confidence, I pick up the phone and dial his number. I bring the phone to my ear and take a seat against the marbled bay window overlooking the city, tirelessly awaiting my fate. If things don’t pan out the way I hope, then I’ll have no choice but to reevaluate. Come up with a new plan to cover the renovation costs.
Three rings later, and a soft, feminine voice comes through the other line. “Thank you for calling McIntosh Motors. This is Brooke. How may I help you?”
I clear my throat. “Hi. I’m looking for Nathaniel McIntosh, please.”
“Mr. McIntosh is in his office. May I ask who’s calling?”
Shit.“His daughter…” I mutter, remembering he does have a daughter, who I’m positive he’d make time for a phone call with.
“Oh, Emma! Hi. How’s college? Your father tells me you’re studying aerospace engineering.”
He even went and made a replica of himself…
“Staying busy,” I say, hoping to cut this conversation short.
“Glad to hear that. Don’t be a stranger, okay? I’ll transfer you over to your father now.”
“Thank you.”
Elevator music plays while I wait to be connected. It’s hard to believe this is a moment in time I once dreamed about experiencing again. Now, I dread it. Only because I know the truth—the same truth my mother will never learn about herself.
