Page 79 of Best Kind of Trouble
I tell Briar we’re on track. Her relief seems on par with mine, but she barely says a word to me afterward. She’s angry at me for accepting her father’s dinner invitation. I get that. I have a parent who isn’t likeable either, and I’d break time and space to keep Briar from having dinner with her. Doesn’t mean I’m going to respect Briar’s wishes. I’m going as her backup tonight, with one mission.
I don’t care who Daddy Sterling is, I don’t care how much he’s worth—he’s not going to make his daughter feel like shit tonight.
Even if she made me feel like shit yesterday.
The day passes quickly, and before I know it, I’m riding my bike toward Sterling Manor.
The air is so crisp it hurts, but it feels good too—like a slap in the face when you need to focus.
When I get to the address Don provided, I roll to a stop in front of the gate and press the call button.
Of course there’s a gate. God forbid anyone uninvited should get in—or anyone invited should have an easy escape. It strikes me as ironic that the Sterlings’ gate is painted gold rather than silver.
A woman’s voice answers over the intercom, “Sterling Manor,” and after I provide my name, she buzzes me through. That’s a nice surprise—I figured I’d be asked for my social security number, birthdate, and a government-issued ID. Actually, I’m kind of sorry they didn’t ask, because I would have enjoyed denying them.
A long, black-paved, circular drive leads to a tall, bland white house with pillars supporting a front porch decked out with white rockers and built-in ceiling fans. I park my bike facing the gate, behind two back-to-back black town cars, before heading to the front door. There’s no sign of Briar’s little car, so presumably she was picked up.
The door opens before I get there, and Briar steps into the entrance, golden light spilling out around her. She’s a vision in a green floor-length dress, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, but she’s dressed for a fancy dinner, not Friday night at the folks’.
“I asked you not to come,” she says in an undertone when I reach her.
“That’s some dress.” I gesture to my old jeans and black thermal shirt. “Does this mean I’m underdressed?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Yes.”
Oh well. I have a feeling I won’t be making a good impression tonight, no matter what I do. She peers over my shoulder, her eyes catching on my Triumph. “You really brought your motorcycle.”
“I’ll give you a ride if you ask nicely,” I say, then grin at thescorching look on her face. “Let’s go in. I also brought a six-pack.”
“A six-pack?”
“I thought your old man would like to taste the goods.”
A cold wind billows across the porch, so I wrap an arm around her and lead her back inside, closing the door behind us.
There’s no one waiting in the foyer, which has a mottled marble floor leading to a curving staircase, beside which stands a large, obviously fake silver tree covered in white lights and bulb ornaments. It would only look impressive to someone who enjoys hotel lobbies, but maybe that’s my childhood talking.
My mom took off when I was ten—Hannah was seven, and my brother was only a few months old. Our dad claimed he couldn’t keep all of those cleaning sprays and brushes straight, so our house was always disorganized chaos. Dirty but comfortable. Less stressful than when my mother was there, watching us with thinly masked disapproval.
“They’re in the sitting room,” Briar says, tugging on a lock of her hair.
“Great. Lead the way.”
She glances at me nervously. “I’ll take your coat.”
“You want this one too?” I tease, trying to get her to relax.
Her answering smile is weak as she takes it from me.
I watch her hang it up, and when she returns, I whisper, “Don’t worry, Princess. I’m not going to tell your daddy what happened in his old office last week. Not even if he asks nicely.”
She scowls and stands up straighter, which is exactly what I was aiming for—so I’m smiling as I follow her to the left of the stairway and around the corner, into a room with deep-maroon walls, oversized paintings that look like a toddler water-gunned paint onto the canvases, and dark, velvet-upholstered furniture.
Briar clearly didn’t inherit her exquisite taste from her parents.
A squat man in dress pants and a collared shirt stands from the couch and holds out his hand. There’s nothing of Briar in him except for the amber of his small, squinty eyes, but they lack her warmth. I take his sweaty palm and pump it once before nodding to the woman who just entered from the other doorway—a blonde in a red dress. Her hair is the same honeyed color as Briar’s, but her eyes are a cold saltwater blue.
We exchange polite introductions. Me, Liam. Him, Don. Her, Alicia. Briar’s parents make the kind of light, meaningless conversation that strangers might exchange in an elevator.
