Page 20 of Best Kind of Trouble
Liamwouldn’t ask a question like that.
He also wouldn’t daydream about being someone else.
He’s such a big man and sticks out in any crowd, but he’s comfortable in his own skin. No doubt. No fear. No second-guessing himself.
What would it be like to live like that?
I’m guessing Liam would never let anyone else put up the wallpaper in his internal room. His reality is his, and his alone.
I want that for myself. I yearn for it.
My mind flashes back to last night. To him saying,Princess, if this is what you think good behavior is, you need someone to show you a good time.
His words sent a tremor through me, but it wasn’t becausehesaid them. He was right. I’ve been living on the razor’s edge for months, waiting for my father to finally give me the brewery or snatch it away like a child’s toy. Other than my hangouts with Sophie and Hannah, I haven’t let myself have much fun.
My favorite escape used to be making jewelry. Twisting the wire to hug the stones used to fill me with the satisfaction of making a small addition to the world’s beauty. But that joy seeped away when my jewelry became tied to failure. Aside from a set of crystal pendants I made for Sophie, Hannah, and me, I haven’t created any jewelry in over a year. People had loved my jewelry. I probably could have figured out a way to continue the business, despite whatTheresa had done, but I’d lost the spark and didn’t know how to bring it back. No beauty can be made without at least a speck of joy.
I give Karma some more love, then stow my yoga mat and get ready to go to the lawyer’s office. Dealing with my hair takes the most time, as it has to be brushed in sections.
I’ve let it grow too long again. I know I should trim it, but cutting my hair will never be a simple act for me. Not after what happened to me in high school.
“Iama badass bitch,” I murmur to myself as I brush it.
Maybe if I say it often enough I’ll believe it.
Or maybe, a voice in my head suggests,you can find a way to prove it to yourself.
The receptionist leadsme into the conference room at John Joy’s, the law firm my father has used for the past thirty years since he and John Joy, otherwise known as “Uncle John,” are golf buddies. My father has already arrived and is sitting at the table in the unremarkable black-and-white conference room—windowless, to make it more depressing. His hands rest on his belly as he grins at his lawyer, seated beside him. John is wearing a slick suit, his thinning hair combed forward to create the illusion that he’s unstylish rather than balding.
My father’s grin stretches wider when he sees me, and he taps on his phone. Seconds later, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” flows out from the speaker, tinny and aggravating.
I dig my nails into my palms.
My father made his no-phone ruling at Silver Star after reading an article that indicated cell phone use made workforces at least twenty-five percent less effective. But he’s never cared about following his own rules. Other people have to fall in line; he’s the one whodrawsthe line.
I press my bruised knuckles with the pad of my finger, reminding myself of what it had felt like to hit that bag last night. Keeping my expression stoic, I say, “Very funny, Dad.”
He chuckles as he stops the song—thank God—and I take a seat opposite him and his lawyer, as if we’re on opposing sides of a custody battle. It feels like it.
“Let’s get this settled,” I say as the receptionist leaves us and closes the door behind her.
My dad nods to Uncle John, who gives me the sympathetic smile of an unskilled actor. “You’ll get the building and all the supplies, of course,” he says, nodding. “You and your father have already agreed on all of that, and he’s also giving you an operating budget that will last you through the end of the year.”
My mouth falls open. My gaze bounces between them before settling on my father. “The end of the year? That’s less than three weeks away.”
There’s a hard glint in his eyes that tells me he won’t be moveable, but I still have to try.
“I thought…you said you’d be giving me all of the brewery’s resources. Shouldn’t that include its bank account?”
My father shakes his head. “I’d be doing you a disservice if I made it too easy.Iwasn’t given any of the advantages you’ve had. I made a man of myself. I want you to do the same.”
Another reminder that he wanted a son—a carbon copy of himself.
I take a deep breath, hold it, and then slowly release it. “All of the staff quit. It’ll take at least until the end of the year to replace them. The new hires will have to turn in their notices. We won’t be able to open until New Year’s Eve, at the earliest.”
“Then I suggest you have one helluva New Year’s party,” he says with a grin.
“I’ve found a brewer, but?—”
