LIAM
For an hour, I circle the perimeter of the grand ballroom, nodding at familiar faces, introducing myself to new ones, and lifting a glass of champagne I have no intention of drinking. The key is to keep moving. A stationary target is an easy target. But if I avoid my father long enough, I could get away with pretending I’ve been around since the opening toast.
The string quartet saws through delicate, classical music, their melody a polite veneer over the low hum of shop talk. My leg is not cooperating. A dull, persistent throb has settled in, and it’s getting worse with every step. The ill-fitting pants are a constant source of irritation. The cheap fabric chafes against my skin, and the cuffs keep creeping higher as the night wears on. I ignore the discomfort. I keep my conversations short, my smile fixed, while scanning the crowd for him.
It’s when I stop searching and am engrossed mid-conversation with a couple from Kansas City, nodding along to their enthusiastic questions about the resort’s marina, that a prickle raises the hairs on the back of my neck. The atmospheric pressure shift announces Charles Rockwood’s approach like anincoming storm front a second before a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “Liam.”
I compose my face into a neutral expression before I turn. “Dad.”
He surveys me, his gaze sweeping from my disheveled hair down to my mismatched pants and scuffed shoes. I brace for the lecture, the disappointed sigh. The pointed comment about punctuality. How he’ll say “son” like it’s a burden.
Instead, he smiles. He pulls me into a bear hug and claps my back.
The Kansas City couple murmur polite excuses and drift toward the champagne tower, leaving me trapped into this parallel universe where my father is happy to see me.
“There you are.” He releases me. “I’m proud of you, son,” he says in a voice I haven’t heard since I was ten and won the junior fishing tournament at the lake.
I pull back another step, blinking. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.
“What for?” I ask, because I’ve got nothing.
He chuckles, a dry, rustling sound. “Don’t play coy, son. Your mother is going to be furious you didn’t tell her. There’ll be hell to pay when she gets back; you’re lucky she couldn’t be here tonight. But I get why you wanted to do it on your own terms.”
My brain is wading through mud. The champagne I haven’t touched seems to affect me, anyway. “Dad, what are you talking about?”
“The wedding.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather. “Tying the knot without setting up a social circus.”
“I’m not married.”
“The cat is out of the bag, Liam.” His eyes, the same gray as mine, sparkle with something that looks disturbingly like paternal pride. “I know about your secret wife. The one you’vestashed in the honeymoon suite.” He claps my shoulder again. “She’s been the talk of the staff.”
So the staff has been playing a game of telephone, and I’ve come out of the other end hitched.
“Dad—” I’m about to set the record straight, but he barrels on.
“After that mess last year.” He interrupts me. “I had my doubts about your judgment. With that picture of you… all over the internet. It was a disgrace. Made you look like a child.” He shakes his head, smile thinning.
He means the photo my ex—if you can call someone I dated for a month that—posted to her seventeen thousand Instagram followers. Me, asleep, with my mouth open, drooling on a pillow, hair matted, wearing nothing but white boxer briefs, that she tagged with a line she probably thought was cute about how she wanted to take a bite at my buns. She deleted the post the second I asked, but the image had already become a viral meme about my ass—flattering, I guess, but not the best look among the business upper crust.
Is This How the Rockwoods Test the Pillows at Their Hotels?was the kindest headline.
The company stock dipped 2 percent. My father didn’t speak to me for a month.
“And then you floundered the Evans deal right after.” He exhales through his nose. “We had a prime opportunity, and you decided to grow a heart instead.”
I clench my jaw, itching to remind him that the “prime opportunity” meant squeezing a family still digging out from the wreckage of a tornado. Ryder Evans would’ve fought us tooth and nail, and strong-arming him into selling his land would’ve been a PR nightmare. And even if he lost, his rich girlfriend would’ve bailed him out. But I’ve had this argument with my father a hundred times over the past year. It’d be pointless toadd another. He sees compassion as a liability and won’t change his mind.
I have no excuse for the social media thing. That was pure stupidity on my part.
And now I have to tell my father that the bride upstairs isn’t my wife. She’s a stranger I almost killed. I’m not a reformed man. I’m the same reckless liability I was yesterday.
“Dad—” I start.
“Yeah, yeah. I want to hear everything about her.” He holds up a hand, steamrolling my attempted confession. “But not tonight. We’ll get to the proper introductions later. Tonight, we have a job to do.” His gaze sweeps across the ballroom, taking in the clusters of investors. “I’m glad you’ve finally stepped up. We run a family company; our values matter, and projecting a solid, traditional image is key.”
A noose tightens around my neck as he continues, “I know I’ve been hard on you. But it’s because I see your potential. And you taking this step, committing to someone—” He pauses, his jaw working. Charles Rockwood doesn’t do emotions well. This is as close to tender as he gets. “Don’t fuck it up, son.”
The crude language is so unlike him it throws me off my already shaky balance. My father doesn’t curse. Not in public. Not at galas. Not ever.
