Did I Mention It's 10 Years Later

by Estelle Maskame

  Did I Mention it’s 10 Years Later?

  Anniversary Bonus Chapter

  Estelle Maskame

  INK ROAD

  Contents

  Title Page

  Imprint

  Dedication

  Tyler

  Eden

  Tyler

  Eden

  Also by Estelle Maskame

  Ink Road

  First published 2019 by Ink Road

  Ink Road is an imprint and trade mark of

  Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Nautical House, 104 Commercial Street, Edinburgh, EH6 6NF

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2019

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 278 7 in EPub format

  Copyright © Estelle Maskame 2019

  The right of Estelle Maskame to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  To all my readers who have followed Tyler and Eden’s journey over the past eight years, thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love and support. I truly hope you enjoy this final chapter of Tyler and Eden’s story, because at last it’s time to say goodbye to the DIMILY series.

  Tyler

  The board room falls quiet as our final applicant of the day leaves, and then I look over at my father. I’m already shaking my head.

  “No chance in hell are we hiring that guy.”

  Dad releases a frustrated sigh and rests his elbows on the table. In front of us, we each have a stack of applications for the role of our new financial analyst. We have yet to find a promising candidate, despite a long and grueling morning of back-to-back interviews. Dad looks as though he’s losing the will to live. “Well, we’ve interviewed everyone, so who’s your pick?”

  “I’ll let you know first thing on Monday. Now,” I say, rising from my chair and gathering up the pile of resumés, “I need to get out of here. I’m already late.” The white marble clock on the wall is staring me in the face. That’s how I know I’m already seventeen minutes late.

  “Tyler.”

  I don’t even look up from my haphazard stack of papers. I’m too busy trying to get out of here as quickly as I can. “What?”

  “Enjoy the party,” Dad says, his voice quiet. I pause and glance up at him, surprised the conversation has turned personal. Dad nervously fumbles with a binder, opening and closing the latch. He turns his eyes down to his lap when he adds, “I wish I could be there.”

  Yeah, well, you can’t, I think. And I immediately feel like a dick for doing so.

  Dad’s shoulders slump with guilt and his expression pools with remorse the same way they always do whenever he remembers that his actions have caused him to miss out on a lifetime of moments with the family he once had.

  We rarely talk about this stuff. We mostly just talk about business, and sometimes he’ll ask how my mom is doing these days, and it’s unbearably awkward whenever he attempts to ask about my brothers. It’s easier to keep the family stuff off-limits, because Dad isn’t a part of my family. To this day, my mom still can’t bring herself to acknowledge him when she passes him in the street. My youngest brother, Chase, doesn’t even remember him. My other brother, Jamie, has made several attempts over the years to restart his relationship with Dad too, but it never works out.

  All Dad has is this company and me. He has never remarried – the one woman he did date for a couple months left him when she found out he’d spent seven years in prison – and now he lives alone in his luxury apartment over in Burbank.

  “Sorry,” is all I say. I give a feeble shrug, because there’s nothing I can do to change anything. What’s done is done, and Dad deserves the isolation.

  I head back to my office, dump the applications on my desk to deal with on Monday, then grab my keys. The building is quiet today, because no one usually works Saturdays, and I yell one final goodbye to Dad before I head out the front door. And every time, every damn time, I glance over my shoulder at the sign as I leave.

  GRAYSON’S.

  Still kind of unbelievable. When I was a kid, I couldn’t think of anything worse than following in Dad’s footsteps. I didn’t want to be involved with his civil engineering firm in any way, but yet here I am, because when you’re a guy with no college degree and your father offers you a job, you would be stupid to decline. I took some courses and now I’ve been the HR manager for the past five years. Dad believes I understand people better than he does, and he’s definitely right about that. It gets tense sometimes working so closely with my father and being around him almost every day, but I enjoy the job. My plan is to stick around for a few more years and then branch out into a new venture, but my life is a little too crazy right now to worry too much about advancing my career.

  I cross the street to the parking garage and jump into my truck, eyeballing the digital clock on my dashboard. Twenty-two minutes late now. Typical. The one Saturday I actually have somewhere important to be is the one Saturday Dad decides to conduct interviews, but I already gave Chase the heads-up that I might be late. I doubt he’s even noticed that I’m not there yet – he’ll be too swept up in the celebrations to care.

  I drive across the city too fast, the late spring sunshine blazing through my windshield, and I already have my tie torn off and half my shirt unbuttoned when I pull up on my driveway. Sometimes I hate living on the outskirts of Santa Monica, but you can’t find nice neighborhoods like ours downtown. Mr. Presley is rocking back and forth on a chair on his porch – he’s too old to mow his own lawn these days, so I usually do it for him in exchange for a cold beer. We’ve grown quite friendly – and I give him a wave as I climb out of my truck. The driveway is missing our SUV, which only means one thing – I’m so late she couldn’t wait for me any longer.

  Our lawn is freshly cut, but I zip across it anyway, leaving footprints in the grass, and jangle my keys into the front door of our two-story house. It still feels weird coming home here, mostly because I grew up two streets over, and I never thought I’d find myself back in this city. Like, ever. I always imagined myself living in New York again, but it doesn’t feel like the right place to settle down. Too fast. And I even imagined myself living a suburban lifestyle too, but it wasn’t for us, either. Too boring.

  So, Santa Monica became a no-brainer when Dad offered me that job down here. It made sense for a lot of different reasons. And it’s really nice to step outside to sunshine every day, rather than the doom and gloom of Portland. I don’t miss that place all that much. Maybe just the coffee.

  I trip over a toy fire truck as I open the front door, curse at it, then nudge it to one side. The house is silent now, but usually when I walk in I’m greeted by the sound of her voice. But today . . . Today she’s had to leave without me. We can’t both be late to such an occasion. At least one of us has to turn up on time so that we don’t become the self-appointed slackers of the family.

  When I get upstairs, I find our bed perfectly made, as always, but with a fresh set of clothes laid out for me. It makes me smile, always grateful, as though she hasn’t done this for me a thousan
d times over the years. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d function these days if it weren’t for her. She keeps my life in perfect order, all the way down to the finer details.

  Our room smells of the perfume she always wears, and I inhale the sweet scent of orange blossom as I change into the more casual dress pants and shirt she’s picked out for me. I’m thirty-nine minutes late by now. I stumble back downstairs while pulling on shoes, then lock up and jump back into my truck.

  I head downtown, but the Saturday traffic around the oceanfront is ridiculously crazy. The beach is packed and there’s a wave of pedestrians heading toward the pier. I don’t come downtown often, but whenever I do, it brings back so many memories of partying on that beach, of hanging out on the boardwalk, of strolling down Third Street Promenade. It reminds me of when I was young. The world felt so different then.

  For the first time in my life, I easily find a parking spot around the corner from the venue. I grab a bottle of cologne from my glovebox and spray myself, then make a hurried dash down to the cocktail bar that has been hired for this afternoon’s celebrations. It’s an intimate venue on Broadway, just off Third Street and smack in the middle of downtown.

  My brother, Jamie, is lingering in the alley next to the building, smoking a cigarette. He raises it into the air to greet me as I pass. “How come you’re an hour late when you only need to drive across town? I flew in from Atlanta this morning and still made it here on time.” He shakes his head at me and takes another drag of his cigarette. His jaw is thick with unruly stubble that he hasn’t bothered to shave for the occasion.

  “I got held up at work,” I say, though my cheeks feel hot when I say it. I know what Jamie is thinking – that I’m an idiot for letting Dad’s company impact my life all over again. But he just nods in understanding, most likely because we haven’t seen each other in months and it would be a real shame to get off on the wrong foot. “It’s good to see you. I bet Mom’s happy to have you home.”

  Jamie rolls his eyes and tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, mashing it into the concrete with his foot. “Yeah, I have to escape out here just to get a break from all her hugging.”

  We share a laugh and handshake. Jamie moved to Atlanta three years ago to pursue a career in IT, but he still makes the effort to fly home for any special occasions. The distance only seems to make our relationship more strained, though. For as long as I can remember, Jamie has never agreed with any of the choices I’ve made in life. But we’re brothers, and we remain civil. We head into the bar together, like two old friends who are catching up, and I am now fifty-eight minutes late to Chase’s engagement party.

  Eden

  There are three glasses of champagne in front of me. Three full glasses of champagne, and with every moment that passes, the more noticeable it’s becoming that I haven’t taken a single sip. I really wish Ella would stop bringing me more. I mean, I get it – it’s free booze and of course we should make the best of it. But, inside, I am begging for the champagne flutes to stop piling up.

  We’re only one hour into my stepbrother Chase’s engagement party, but already the open bar has everyone tipsy. Suited bartenders are handing out champagne and bottles of beer as though there’s no tomorrow and the music – a breezy mix of pop and chart music – is loud enough while still allowing us to hold conversations. The venue has been set out with huge circular tables and everyone is mingling around them. There’s a lot of people here – mostly Chase’s friends.

  I can see Chase, now, talking to some of his old friends from high school, champagne in hand and a dopey grin on his face. His new fiancé, Liam, leans into him. Neither of them has stopped smiling as they work their way around the room, talking to each guest. They got engaged while on vacation in Mexico City last month and Ella’s mind has already been running wild with ideas for the wedding.

  “They should have a champagne fountain at the reception. Specifically, this champagne,” my stepmother muses, taking another swig from her glass. She was giddy before the booze even started being served, high on the excitement. I raise an eyebrow at her across the table. “What? I have three sons, Eden. I always assumed I wouldn’t ever be needed for any wedding planning.”

  Oh, Ella. I laugh and instinctively reach out to grab my drink, but then quickly retract my hands to my lap instead. I anxiously twist my engagement ring around my finger, playing with my wedding ring too. I can’t stop tapping my foot beneath the table. The closer Chase is getting to our table, the more I’m worrying. I don’t want him to realize that his brother hasn’t shown up yet.

  Where is he?

  “Do you know this is making me feel incredibly old?” Rachael says as she returns to our table, two glasses of champagne in her hands. She sinks down into a chair and eyeballs me through thick eyelash extensions.

  Our table is small – only Ella, Rachael and me for now. My other stepbrother, Jamie, slipped outside for a cigarette a minute ago, and God only knows where my father has disappeared to.

  “Chase is getting married,” Rachael continues, as dramatic as always. It’s the one thing about her that hasn’t changed over the past decade, no matter how old we get. “The little kid who lived across the street from my childhood home, the one who used to run across his front yard naked in the summer. Do you remember that, Ella?”

  “He was always such a streaker,” Ella says with a chuckle.

  “And here I am, drinking this fine champagne at his engagement party,” Rachael continues, slowly exhaling as though she can’t believe it. She gives my collection of champagne glasses a pointed nod. “Don’t you like it?”

  “Oh, I do. I just–” I swallow and grab a glass, then press it to my lips that are sealed tightly shut, pretending to take a sip so that they have no reason to question me. “I’m just distracted. I’m waiting for–”

  “He’s still not here?” Ella asks, cutting me off. Her head swivels around fast as though she’s searching the venue for her missing son, like she totally forgot he hadn’t shown up yet. How many glasses has she drunk? She purses her lips in disapproval. “That job is starting to take over his life.”

  “He said something about interviewing job applicants,” I tell her with a sigh, because at this point, I’m growing more agitated every minute. We were supposed to come to this party together. He promised he wouldn’t get tied up at work, but it seems like he has. Maybe I should call him.

  “At least your husband is in the vicinity,” Rachael snorts. “Mine is working in Phoenix for the weekend, which only makes me look like some single childhood neighbor who’s about to get crazy drunk.”

  Then, finally, out of the corner of my eye I see him.

  With Jamie by his side, he walks into the cocktail bar, gaze already searching the crowd for me. He’s wearing the pants and shirt I looked out for him earlier and he rubs anxiously at the stubble that neatly lines his jaw.

  My husband, Tyler, at last.

  Tyler

  My eyes meet hers.

  Eden’s sitting at a table across the room, shooting me an intense look that appears to be a mixture of relief and frustration. She looks as stunning as ever as she stands from her chair to wave me over. Her dark hair is loosely curled, her lips are painted red, and she’s wearing the most gorgeous red satin dress that hugs her body in all the right ways. If I’d finished work on time and arrived home to find her looking like that, then we would have both been late to this party.

  “This music seriously sucks. I’m gonna grab a beer,” Jamie grumbles from my side. “You want one? It’s free.”

  I hold up a hand, my attention still fastened only on my wife. “I’m good.”

  Jamie disappears to the bar and I realize that Eden isn’t alone at the table – she’s sitting with Rachael Rivera and my mother. I blink fast, shaking away the risqué thoughts running through my mind, and make my way over. I should probably catch up with Chase first, but Eden looks desperate for me to join her, and given that I’m an hour late, I owe it to her to get my ass
over to that table ASAP.

  When I reach her, I put my hands on her waist and pull her in close, my fingertips brushing against the silky satin of her dress. “I am so sorry,” I apologize, burying my face into the crook of her neck. I can smell that perfume again, the one that lingered in the air of our home.

  Eden loosely wraps an arm around the back of my neck, hugging me back. “You had around thirty seconds before I started blowing up your phone.”

  We pull away from one another and our eyes lock. I run my hand down her back, feeling the dip of her spine, and a smile toys at my lips. I miss those hazel eyes of hers every hour that we’re apart. “You look . . .”

  “Mr. Tyler Bruce,” Mom says sternly, cutting me off. I glance over and she’s waving a champagne flute at me in disapproval, her hand movements shaky. Is she drunk? I have no idea. “You’re late for your brother’s engagement party.”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, taking a deep breath and giving her a quick nod of acknowledgment. “Rachael.”

  Rachael gives me a little wave and then starts picking at the bowl of nuts in the center of the table. I don’t see Stephen anywhere.

  “Did your father make you work late?” Mom asks as she gets to her feet. She pulls me away from Eden and plants a kiss on my cheek, all while eyeing me suspiciously. No one ever thought it was a good idea for me to work alongside Dad. It took me weeks to convince Eden it would be fine, but my mother still thinks the whole thing is going to explode in my face one day.

  “Can we not talk about work right now?”

  “Sorry. I’m just glad you’re finally here.” Mom hiccups, then blushes with embarrassment. “I’m going to go and find Dave.”