Page 59 of Hottie on Her Shelf
Amazing how after more than three decades, his mom’s voice could still freeze him in place with that spear of disapproval.
He turned to see his parents coming off the elevator. “Mom. Dad. What are you doing here? Remember the rule about not barging in during the workday without an appointment?”
“It does not appear that you are working. Or rather, if this is how you spend your days, loitering in the hallway, perhaps Ms. Scott was right to lambaste you publicly.”
Ah. That’s why they were here. To rip him a new one. So much for his buzz of accomplishment.
“If I told you I’d been in back-to-back meetings since ten, would that make a difference?”
“No. A public figure doesn’t make excuses, Fitz. A public figure doesn’t make the mistake that needs to be excused in the first place.”
Yeah. This wasn’t the day to mess with him. Because he’d had people throwing his so-called mistakes in his face all day long. Some accusations were true. Some were wildly overblown, seeing as how he wasn’t a monarch ruling singlehandedly. Either way, he didn’t need the people who were supposed to support him making digs on top of everyone else.
Especially not after just accomplishing an actual mayoral task so damn smoothly.
“You know what?” Fitz drummed another riff. “This isn’t a mistake. And it doesn’t require an explanation.”
Caroline shifted her underarm clutch to a stranglehold in front of her with both hands. “We won’t air the family’s dirty laundry in the hallway. Let’s go in your office.”
“I don’t think so.” They’d set up camp and berate him for letting down the vaunted and lengthy legacy of the Montgomerys.
One, he knew that tune and hated it. Two, this was his life. If Hallie was strong enough to stand up to him and the entire town, he could damn well stand up to his parents. If he’d screwed up, he’d own it. He’d try to make it right, but he wouldn’t be lectured at like he’d forgotten to turn in his homework.
This time, his mom put a hand on his arm. An “all is well” pleasant mask lifted her cheeks and eyebrows, in case anyone walked by. God forbid a person know that the Montgomerys bitched and argued like everyone else.
“The conversation we want to have with you isn’t appropriate to conduct where passers-by could overhear.”
Two could play that game. He donned his own mask of professional courtesy. “In that case, I’m certain it’s not a conversation I have the time for today. Feel free to check with my assistant and schedule something for a week or so from now.”
“Fitzwilliam.” Preston’s rumble of his full name was low and stern. “This cannot wait.”
“Unless there is a surprise invasion by Canada—or, I guess, a water attack from Greenland—it can wait.”
His father gripped his other arm. “You’ve got bad press, son. Front page. It must be managed.”
“Nope. Freedom of the press says otherwise. The Gazette can write whatever they damn well please. I don’t have to like it. You don’t have to like it. If it isn’t libelous, it gets printed.”
“There’s a very small window in which the reports of yesterday’s debacle can be handled.” Preston leaned forward until his chin was over his polished-daily black oxfords. “That woman can’t be allowed to make you look bad.”
That woman?Fitz cringed. And got righteously mad on her behalf, too.
“Ms. Scott didn’t make me look bad. She held up a mirror. What was reflected had more than some truth in it. I mean, she didn’t bother to list all the occasions when I did come through on campaign promises, but that’s not her job.” Fitz wrenched away from his parents and stalked down the hallway to stop outside the door with the flag of Swan Cove hanging on the wall next to it. “That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.”
“Fitz—”
“No more. I’m doing my level best to uphold the family legacy. I’m genuinely sorry if I’m not doing it up to your expectations. If you want to register a complaint as a citizen, again, talk to my assistant. If you want to set up a convivial family dinner where we talk about the chances of our team winning the July yacht race, let me know when. Otherwise, we’re finished.”
Fitz slipped into his office and locked the door for good measure, even though it felt ridiculous. Then he leaned back against it, fingers at his temples, and let out a long breath. That wasn’t anywhere close to fun.
“Fitz. About time you got in here.” Derek hinged up from where he’d been lying on the couch. “We need to talk damage control.”
Son of a bitch.
Well, it wasn’t as if he could step back outside to avoid the guy. The parental units were probably still there, fuming and huffing.
Fine. He’d do this now, waste his high from the tree meeting, get all the shit out of the way at once, and then go refind his good mood on the lacrosse field, helping kids reach their potential.
Yeah.
