charm.
“I’m a graphic designer.” Pushing thoughts of Nate from my mind, I instantly feel steadier. “I manage the WestTech website and design promotional marketing materials— brochures, business cards, advertisements, social media campaigns. Stuff like that.”
“And you enjoy it? Working so closely with your father?”
“I love it.” I smile softly. “He’s away a lot, so I don’t see him that often. Which is okay — otherwise, we’d probably drive each other crazy.”
The lie slips from my lips as easy as breathing. I’ve been saying it so long, I almost believe it myself.
Truth is, there’s no such thing as seeing Milo West too often or working with him too closely . I took a job at WestTech not because it was the only option open to me — I had plenty of offers, when I graduated from MIT at the top of my class — but because I knew it was the only guarantee I’d have of ever crossing paths with the man who raised me.
Well… raised is a bit of a stretch.
Parker raised me. He was my big brother, but he did all the work — making sure my homework was done, that I’d eaten dinner, that no one at school was messing with me. He gave up being a kid the day our mom died, and stepped into the void she’d left behind.
My dad certainly wasn’t going to.
Milo had more of a consultant role in my rearing. Sure, he’d get involved with whatever daily drama was boiling over in his children’s lives — if he happened to be around that day. As a kid, the only sure way of seeing him was when Parker and I would beg our nanny to drive us to the WestTech tower, a soaring high-rise in the South End, where we were welcomed with the grudging patience of a man who loves his children… just not as much as his empire.
We didn’t ask often. Eventually we stopped asking altogether.
“I’m sure he values your work very much.” Cormack’s voice shatters my reverie. “He’s a lucky man, to have a daughter like you.”
I smile up at him thinking, even if his words aren’t remotely true, it’s nice to hear them.
Before I can respond, a tinkling feminine laugh accosts my ears. A second later, a body slams into mine and arms wind around my frame.
“You’re here!” Gemma squeals, grabbing me by the shoulders and peering into my face. Her grin is a mile wide. Her hair — the same shade as mine but longer — is twined up in a modern French twist, and she’s wearing a killer boho-chic blue dress that matches the exact shade of her eyes. She’s stunning.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I grin back at her, feeling her exuberance infect me like an airborne contagion. “It’s amazing, Gemma. Seriously, you’ve outdone yourself.”
She waves away my words. “I barely did any of this. Have you met my friends? My boyfriend? Total control freaks, the lot of them. For some reason, they all seem to think everything I touch turns into a disaster.”
This, from the girl who breaks approximately one iPhone per week.
I bury a grin. “I’m sure they just wanted to help.”
She expels a gust of air. “It’s a miracle they even let me pick the flowers.”
“I see you ousted those macabre calla lilies in favor of peonies,” I say with only a small amount of teasing in my voice, glancing around the gallery space where white, puffy blooms float in water crystal vases and saturate the air with sweet, fresh perfume.
“When in doubt, stick with the classics.” Gemma smiles. “Chase knows they’re my favorite. I think he buys them by the truckload.”
I can confirm this — I’ve been to their penthouse. Practically every surface holds a vase full of the colorful blooms.
“Where is he?”
“Oh, off in a corner somewhere brooding, no doubt. He’s not exactly a social butterfly in the best of times, and everyone here wants to talk to him about a partnership with Croft Industries.” Her eyes go soft as she talks about him. “I wouldn’t have been able to pull any of this together without him. None of
“I’m a graphic designer.” Pushing thoughts of Nate from my mind, I instantly feel steadier. “I manage the WestTech website and design promotional marketing materials— brochures, business cards, advertisements, social media campaigns. Stuff like that.”
“And you enjoy it? Working so closely with your father?”
“I love it.” I smile softly. “He’s away a lot, so I don’t see him that often. Which is okay — otherwise, we’d probably drive each other crazy.”
The lie slips from my lips as easy as breathing. I’ve been saying it so long, I almost believe it myself.
Truth is, there’s no such thing as seeing Milo West too often or working with him too closely . I took a job at WestTech not because it was the only option open to me — I had plenty of offers, when I graduated from MIT at the top of my class — but because I knew it was the only guarantee I’d have of ever crossing paths with the man who raised me.
Well… raised is a bit of a stretch.
Parker raised me. He was my big brother, but he did all the work — making sure my homework was done, that I’d eaten dinner, that no one at school was messing with me. He gave up being a kid the day our mom died, and stepped into the void she’d left behind.
My dad certainly wasn’t going to.
Milo had more of a consultant role in my rearing. Sure, he’d get involved with whatever daily drama was boiling over in his children’s lives — if he happened to be around that day. As a kid, the only sure way of seeing him was when Parker and I would beg our nanny to drive us to the WestTech tower, a soaring high-rise in the South End, where we were welcomed with the grudging patience of a man who loves his children… just not as much as his empire.
We didn’t ask often. Eventually we stopped asking altogether.
“I’m sure he values your work very much.” Cormack’s voice shatters my reverie. “He’s a lucky man, to have a daughter like you.”
I smile up at him thinking, even if his words aren’t remotely true, it’s nice to hear them.
Before I can respond, a tinkling feminine laugh accosts my ears. A second later, a body slams into mine and arms wind around my frame.
“You’re here!” Gemma squeals, grabbing me by the shoulders and peering into my face. Her grin is a mile wide. Her hair — the same shade as mine but longer — is twined up in a modern French twist, and she’s wearing a killer boho-chic blue dress that matches the exact shade of her eyes. She’s stunning.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I grin back at her, feeling her exuberance infect me like an airborne contagion. “It’s amazing, Gemma. Seriously, you’ve outdone yourself.”
She waves away my words. “I barely did any of this. Have you met my friends? My boyfriend? Total control freaks, the lot of them. For some reason, they all seem to think everything I touch turns into a disaster.”
This, from the girl who breaks approximately one iPhone per week.
I bury a grin. “I’m sure they just wanted to help.”
She expels a gust of air. “It’s a miracle they even let me pick the flowers.”
“I see you ousted those macabre calla lilies in favor of peonies,” I say with only a small amount of teasing in my voice, glancing around the gallery space where white, puffy blooms float in water crystal vases and saturate the air with sweet, fresh perfume.
“When in doubt, stick with the classics.” Gemma smiles. “Chase knows they’re my favorite. I think he buys them by the truckload.”
I can confirm this — I’ve been to their penthouse. Practically every surface holds a vase full of the colorful blooms.
“Where is he?”
“Oh, off in a corner somewhere brooding, no doubt. He’s not exactly a social butterfly in the best of times, and everyone here wants to talk to him about a partnership with Croft Industries.” Her eyes go soft as she talks about him. “I wouldn’t have been able to pull any of this together without him. None of
Similar Books
