Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
I growl out a frustrated breath. “He took a job with Mephistopheles,” I say. “Literally the worst possible choice.”
“He’s backed into a corner, Annie.”
I narrow my eyes. “David Green, are you Team West?”
Dad shakes his head, laughing. “I just want what’s best for you, and when you were talking about your time on the island, you had that Anna Glow. You never talk about guys this way with me.”
“It’s awkward, huh?”
He laughs again. “It’s not awkward. I like it.” He kisses my forehead. “It’s possible that he has some family stuff that is more complicated than you realize. It sounds like he grew up with money, but not much else. It doesn’t have to stay romantic between you, but you are legally married to him and will have to deal with that eventually.” He smiles at my groan. “I just think, give it a few days and then reach out to him. See if he’s okay.”
“Okay.”
It’s where we leave it for the night.
“Mind if I crash here?” I ask.
“Course not.”
I took a cab directly from the airport to see him and unload to my safest of safe spaces. It’s restorative, being back in my childhood home, but it’s after one; I’m exhausted and Dad is up later than he probably has been in two years. Standing, I help him up, get him sorted through his nighttime routine and tucked in like a kid instead of a grumpy fifty-year-old swatting me away. I kiss the top of his bald head through his ever-present beanie and linger at the door. “I’m glad to be home with you,” I tell him.
“Vivi’s a better cook,” he answers, and smiles at me just before I turn off the light and do everything I can to not worry about Liam going home to an empty house, Liam not having a David Green, Liam facing all of this alone.
* * *
VIVI A BETTER COOK than me? Yeah, right!
I’ve planned to have pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs ready for Dad, and when he walks into the kitchen around nine the next morning, that’s exactly what he gets.
Mostly.
“What’s this?”
“Breakfast,” I say, offended.
Dad sits at the breakfast bar, pulling the plate closer and sniffing it.
I used up all the eggs for the scramble that I overcooked and had to toss, and then forgot baking powder entirely in the batter, so without both ingredients, the pancakes are a little thin but obviously recognizable as pancakes. I huff out a breath.
Dad points at the bacon, looking up at me. “What happened?”
“I thought you liked crispy bacon.”
He grins. “This is bacon?”
I pull the plate away, saying, “Okay, Mr. Picky,” and pull out plan B: the doughnuts I DoorDashed from Winchell’s right after I burned the first batch of bacon.
“Now we’re talking.” Dad digs into the box and takes an enormous bite of a maple bar. I’m so happy to see him with an appetite that I can’t even pretend to be offended anymore. He glances down at the counter and then nods to me. “Viv’s calling,” he says through a mouthful. “Probably to tell you that burned food will give me cancer.”
“Oh my God,” I bark, horrified, snatching the plate and dumping everything into the trash. “That’s not funny!”
Dad laughs anyway and I give him the finger (my ring finger! It’s my dad!) and pick up the phone, swiping to answer. “Vivs! Hey!”
“Turn on the news,” she says.
Humor drains out of me at her flat tone. “What?”
“Turn it on. Turn on CNN.”
I jog into the living room, digging through the throw pillows on the couch to find Dad’s remote. “Dad, how do I turn on the news?” I ask, flailing.
“What?” he calls.
“The news! I don’t watch news! I just watch clips like five days later on Twitter. Help me!”
“Just turn on the TV.”
I hit a few buttons, finally ending up on an Apple TV menu that has nothing that looks at all newsy. I let out a garbled roar.
He walks in, taking the remote from me and laughing. A few seconds later, CNN is up and I’m staring in shock at the headline on the chyron:
Breaking News: Weston Foods Heir Apparent Liam Weston Stalked and Harassed Female Employees.
I don’t realize I’m sitting until the coffee table is beneath me. “Vivs, I gotta go,” I say, and drop my phone somewhere beside me.
“What’s this?” Dad asks, as Liam’s photo from the Stanford faculty website appears.
“Your son-in-law,” I say, and turn up the volume. “And… I don’t know.”
“Just eleven years ago,” Victor Blackwell is saying, “Liam Weston was embroiled in a scandal centered around the technology he developed for the company, called PISA, or Product Inventory Surveillance and Alignment. And now,” the anchor says dramatically, “it appears the scandal went deeper than anyone knew. We’ll get into it, after the break.”
I lean in, shouting at the TV. “What? No! This is no time for commercials!”