"Me?" I said, making a face as I joined him in the living room, swiping my purse. I dug into the side pocket I kept my phone in. A three-letter word had my heart thudding in my chest.
'Dad'.
We hadn't talked since the blowup at the office. Not that I expected him to approach me. I knew my dad. He'd bide his time, making me second guess and stew in my anger until it was a black hole inside of me. Then I'd be left with guilt and remorse, and I'd end up apologizing. The whole song and dance usually took weeks, not days. And this was a first. He was calling me.
I accepted it, a smile hiding behind my lips. Maybe the outburst in the office was what we needed. Maybe he was finally starting to see that I needed a father, not a boss.
"Hey Dad!"
"Melissa, can you tell me why our phone lines have been clogged with calls from the press? Something about you stealing the boyfriend of some actress?"
The smile disintegrated. "Let me explain-"
"Oh, this should be good." His voice was brusque. Callous and unfeeling, as usual. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Logan
"Still pouting?"
I knew the answer. If I could have my way, we'd be in bed. Those big blue eyes would be wondering what kinky thing I had in store. Her long blonde hair would be like a wild halo; the sun streaming in golden, just like her skin. Instead, we were on the road just outside of Sacramento.
From the way Melissa had completely shut down last night, I had a feeling her father had made some sort of ultimatum, ordering her home as soon as possible. She had barely said a word the rest of the night. She only took a couple of bites of her sandwich before she retreated to the bedroom.
She didn't have to say the words, but I knew she needed the space, so I backed off and attended to my business. Checked the earnings reports, eyed potential investments. When I went back in the bedroom where she was tossing and turning, face twisted with a struggle she couldn't escape in her dreams, I rescheduled my meetings the following day. I slid into bed beside her and I held her. I tried to cherish the moments. The way she leaned into me like she couldn't get enough of my touch. I knew she wouldn't be happy with me in the morning when I told her a car would be taking us to Sacramento so she could iron things out with her father.
After she spent the better part of the morning hours telling me she didn't want to see him, then relenting slightly and telling me she'd see him, but alone, she'd finally conceded altogether. She warned that I'd see with my own eyes how she and her father were like oil and water.
Other than a 'no' when I asked her if she wanted to stop for coffee and a 'whatever' when I got her a mocha that she begrudgingly drank, we did very little talking. But as the miles between us and our final destination became fewer, she started fidgeting.
"I can have Mike pull over so you can stretch your legs if you'd like."
"It's an hour and forty-five minute drive, Logan," she fired back. "Not a cross country road trip."
The Dom in me wanted nothing more than to get the driver to roll up the partition and spank her for mouthing off, but I kept him under lock and key. The fact was, I had no idea about the details of her relationship with her father, besides the obvious strain. She had every right to deal with the stress of seeing him how she deemed fit.
I was so used to taking charge, so eager to fix something since things in my life were a mess, that I didn't consider that I was overstepping my bounds.
Too late to go back now. Just have to make the best of it.
I leaned back against the leather seat, saying something I should have said before we embarked on this road trip. "Tell me about your father."
She gave me a wilting look, her lips pulled into a scowl. "We're almost there. You'll know all about him soon enough."
"He's a businessman, I'll know what he wants me to know about him," I rebutted sharply. When she angrily snapped her attention to the window, I cooled my temper. I'd all but thrown her over my shoulder. Her father had ordered her home, and then I ordered her to accompany me to straighten the whole mess out. Both of us made demands of her and forced her hand. It ultimately didn’t matter if I thought I was doing the right thing.
And it wasn't a completely selfless act on my part. I wanted to meet the man, show him that I wasn't the tabloid ass**le that was plastered all over blogs and magazines. I wanted him to see I loved his daughter. But in my rush to prove myself, I put Melissa's needs second. That was an error I was dying to correct.
I wanted to know her, to get her to go to an uncomfortable place. I couldn't ask that of her and not do the same. "I never met my father. My mother spoke of him of course, but none of it was good." I reached for a bottle of Evian, wishing it was a bottle of vodka instead. Delving into my past was more than uncomfortable--it was dangerously close to unbearable.
Referring to the woman that gave birth to me as a mother after what she did felt false. I gave the Brysons, the family that adopted me, as little of my heart as I could get away with, but if a woman deserved to be called ‘mother’, it was Rose Bryson. She was the one that put ice packs on my fists after a fight, the one who made me freshly baked cookies for good luck before a test. She was the one that worried about me and told me that I was special after I got so used to thinking I was a mistake.
In the back of my mind, I always wondered if my father missed me. I should have hated him--my mother planted the seeds from the moment I'd unwisely asked where he was. But there was always a drop of curiosity that never ran out. I wondered what it would be like if my father had never done what he did and my mother was normal. But Melissa was proof there was no such thing as normal. Everyone carried around the broken pieces of splintered white picket fences.
We pulled closer to downtown. Sidewalks and modest storefronts were shoulder to shoulder with new construction. Downtown Sac was getting quite the facelift.
Melissa probably knew the way from here like the back of her hand, but her attention was elsewhere. Her eyes focused on every street lamp, every mailbox, every sign. I'd forced a reunion on her--I wouldn't force her to talk until she was ready.
The driver eased to the curb. I didn't need to strain my detective muscles to figure out that the small huddle of people clustered near the entrance were paparazzi. Melissa finally looked at me. There was no anger, no fight in her gaze, just weariness.
"Take me home," she said flatly.
I gave her a nod and she leaned forward to tell the driver the address. When she sat back, she tiptoed her fingers until they brushed against mine. Her other hand gripped her phone, typing out a message with her thumb.