Page 10 of The Summer We Lie

"Yep," she confirms.

"You used the card I gave you, right?"

"No, I robbed an elderly couple to pay for them," she says.

"Smart ass," I say with a smile. Harper's always had my sense of humor.

"Well, I just wanted to check in," I say.

"It's all good. I'll see you in two weeks."

"I love you, honey," I say.

"Love you too, Dad," she says, and we hang up.

Five minutes later, I'm pulling up to my house. The contemporary structure of glass, stone, and steel sits dramatically on the bluff overlooking the Pacific, all clean architectural lines against nature's wild backdrop. It's exactly what I envisioned when I designed it three years ago, each angle and surface personally calculated. But tonight, all those carefully crafted 5,200 square feet feel empty. Too vast for one person.

I unlock the door and drop my keys on the Italian marble console in the entryway. The house is silent except for the faint hum of the smart home system maintaining perfect climate control. Everything sits precisely where I left it this morning—perfectly ordered, perfectly clean. Sometimes I miss the chaos of family life. The random shoes in the hallway, homework spread across the dining table, someone else's music playing from another room.

I loosen my tie as I walk across the open concept main floor to the kitchen, its professional-grade appliances gleaming in the muted lighting. I open the refrigerator out of habit though I already know I'll be ordering in. I grab a bottle of water from the minimalist interior and take a long drink, then head upstairs to the master suite that occupies the entire top floor.

Under the hot spray in the marble shower, I let my mind wander. Two more weeks until Harper arrives for summer. Two months with my daughter back home. We'll go hiking on the weekends, hang out on the beach, maybe use the fire pit while watching the sunset from one of the terraces. And she's bringing her best friend this year. What was her name again? Skye. That's it.

I step out of the shower, towel off, and pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt and I head back downstairs. Tonight I just want some Thai food and mindless TV. Everything else can wait until morning.

A quick glance at the sleek wall clock tells me I have exactly thirty minutes before I need to leave for the bar. Not much time, but enough.

I examine my reflection briefly before I finish getting ready—electric razor over my stubbled jaw, a splash of cologne at my neck, nothing elaborate. The guys are waiting, and despite what they always hope, I'm not looking to impress anyone tonight.

In my bedroom, I pull on a pair of dark jeans that fit perfectly—expensive but understated—and a charcoal gray henley that stretches across my shoulders. The fabric feels good against my skin, casual but quality. I've never understood men who don't care about the feel of what they wear. Back in the bathroom, I run my fingers through my damp hair, styling it with minimal product. We're just going to McCabe's, the same bar we've been meeting at for years.

Once dressed, I head through the quiet house to the garage, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the empty space. Harper's room sits silent and dark—two more weeks until summer when she'll be back from college. I miss her more than I'd admit to anyone.

Inside my Audi, I pull out my phone and send a quick text to the group chat.

Me: OMW

The response comes almost immediately.

Logan: Hurry up, there is a cute girl at the bar, just your type.

I roll my eyes. Here we go again—the endless matchmaking attempts. I know they think they're helping, that I'm too isolated, too focused on work. They've been trying to set me up since the divorce was finalized. I respond, already feeling the familiar irritation rising.

Me: And what type is that?

Logan: Red head, cute, big tits.

Ethan: I'm going to go for it if you take too long. I love a red head.

My thumbs tap quickly across the screen. They never learn.

Me: Go for it!

I start the car, the engine purring to life with a satisfying rumble. As I back out of the garage, the dashboard lights illuminate my face in a soft blue glow. I'm turning the car around in the circular drive when my phone pings with an incoming email. I pause, debating whether to check it. Probably some client having a design "emergency" that could absolutely wait until Monday morning. But years of being on call have conditioned me to always check, just in case.

I pull the car to a stop and grab my phone. The notification preview catches my attention immediately—not a client, but Obsidian. That's unusual. I'm still a member of the exclusive club, paying the exorbitant yearly dues mostly out of inertia, but I haven't actually set foot inside in over a year.

My curiosity piqued, I open the email.