by Kris Jayne
Looking back, it’s a good thing I hadn’t been—not that running to the beach on the weekends to saturate my liver with Everclear punch was such a great idea either.
“I applied to graduate school,” Delilah said, “but I got married and then got pregnant right away.”
“How long have you been divorced?” Marisa asked.
I glared at her. “That’s none of your business.”
Delilah nudged me with her foot under the table. “It’s fine. Our divorce has been final for a little over a year, and we were separated for a year before that.”
“Planning your daughter’s wedding—that’s an exciting but daunting task. When are they getting married?”
For once, I was thankful for Dad’s ability to control a conversation.
Delilah sighed. “This summer. June. Unless I can talk her out of it. It’s not much time, and she still has a year of school, but I’m losing hope.” She paused and patted my hand. “Griffin tells me I should let it go.”
“There’s no sense in talking her out of it. She’s happy.”
“True. I’m working on that.” Delilah smiled and winked at me. “Like your dad said, time to let go.”
“Where are the nuptials taking place?” he asked.
“France. Her fiancé is French, and his family owns a vineyard there.”
“Which one?”
“Domaine De Selva.”
“Oh, they have a lovely white burgundy. They only export about a thousand cases per year. I might be calling you for a favor.” Dad laughed as did Delilah.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Her smile stretched wide for Dad, and a knot formed in my solar plexus. The wine turned sour on my tongue.
I’d forgotten how charming he could be. I pushed the glass back, leaving it half full. I’d had enough. Dad and Delilah laughing was making me crazy.
Marisa took advantage of the lull to turn the focus back to pumping Delilah for information. “What about your other family? Are they all in Dallas?”
“Yes,” Delilah replied instantly, then amended her answer. “Actually, my mother moved here to North Carolina. She lives in Asheville, and I’m going to see her Friday morning.”
“Oh, if we’d known, we could have met her, too,” Marisa said.
Delilah’s breath hitched, and she coughed.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Sure,” she chirped.
“Another time maybe,” I said.
Dad swirled the remaining wine in his glass. “You didn’t tell us that Delilah had family in these parts, Griffin.”
Delilah spoke up to clarify what I didn’t want to tell them.
“He didn’t know. My mother and I aren’t close, and I didn’t know she’d moved here. My daughter told me last week.”
“You don’t speak to your mother?” Marisa saved the indictment with a sympathetic smile. “That’s too bad.”
“There’s a lot of history there. I was raised by my grandparents.”
Gregory leaned forward in his seat. “Are they in Dallas?”
Delilah ran her finger over a pattern in the tablecloth, and her smile faded. “They were. They’ve both passed away.”
Dad apologized. “That’s hard. Do you have siblings?”
“No. I have some cousins back in Texas, but other than that, it’s just me and my daughter.”
“And your ex-husband,” Marisa added, opening a fresh bottle of wine that had appeared and pouring herself another glass. Dad watched her, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Delilah replied.
I cleared my throat. “I met Terrence in Dallas at New Year’s. We had brunch to celebrate Katerina’s engagement. He knows Carter, actually. They’ve known each other since they were kids.”
“What does he do?” Marisa rolled the stem of her glass in her fingers.
“He’s a chief risk officer for an investment firm. He used to be an actuary,” Delilah said.
“From that to Griffin? What a leap. No wonder you look so…pleased.” Marisa snorted, then blushed.
Delilah’s mouth dropped open. My teeth clenched. Dad reached over and slipped the wineglass out of his wife’s hands.
“I think that’s enough, Marisa.” His mouth took a grim downward turn. In an instant, he looked ten years older, Marisa’s downcast visage ten years younger, and the two of them together entirely absurd.
Everyone dabbed their lips with napkins and rearranged their silverware for a minute before Marisa raised her flushed face.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the contrast is all. I mean an actuary, and Griffin is so…wild.”
“Marisa,” Dad’s voice edged.
My ex-girlfriend waved a hand. “And you seem so…together.”
“We are together,” Delilah snapped, eyeing Marisa carefully. I’d seen that look. It signaled an end to the evening’s pleasantries, but that was already out the window, anyway.
“No. You. You seem so together. That’s not Griffin.”
Delilah’s chin lifted. “You haven’t spoken Griffin in seven years. You don’t know anything about who and what he is now.”
The fierceness of Delilah’s defense made my heart pound. After our discussion in the car, I’d worried she didn’t trust that I was old enough to know what I wanted. What I wanted more and more was her. Nothing else mattered.
I had to tell her.
We made eye contact, and she said, “It’s late. We should go. Thank you for dinner. I’ll get our things.”
Dad made a move to stand, but Delilah waved him off. “No need. I’ll get it.”
Marisa ignored her and kept talking. “The last time I did see him, he was hardly together.”
“That was a difficult day for him, and we’re not revisiting that, Marisa. Stop.” Dad grabbed her hand, and she shook him off.
“Okay, not the last time,” she said, then mumbled, “Then, at least, he was sober. Not like the Hamptons.”
I froze, glad Delilah had retrieved her purse and our coats from the hall closet.
Marisa was too far into her cups if she was bringing up New York. There’s no way she wanted my father to know about the weekends she visited me when I worked on Wall Street.
We spent so many days and nights together that summer and into the fall. I thought we must be headed toward reconciliation if she kept flying up to see me in between working full time as a reporter and on the copy desk at the paper. I proposed again. Again on the beach. She shot me down again. And I spent the rest of the weekend nursing my hurt pride with bourbon.
I thought that would be the end of it. I had no intention of ever seeing her again.
But I did. On Christmas Day when I found out she was even busier than I knew. Busier than my father knew to this day—unless she kept talking.
The untold truth burned in my chest. Keeping that secret was as much a reason to stay away as any. Once the math around Marisa’s due date with Grace let me off the hook, that’s exactly what I did. If he wanted the cheat, he could have her. I figured he deserved it.
Besides, that was easier than looking into his eyes and lying, which I thought I might have to do now as Dad tried to figure out what the hell Marisa was talking about.
“The Hamptons? You’re not making sense, and I think we should get to bed.” Dad put on a half-smile in apology. “She’s been under a lot of stress since my episode.”
Delilah returned and handed me my coat. “We all have. Do you need help with anything?”
A mess of glasses and remnants from the meal littered the table.
Dad shook his head and guided a now teetering Marisa toward the kitchen and the back stairs. “The housekeeper will get everything in the morning. Drive safe.”
Marisa sighed and looked from Delilah to me and back again. “This was fun. He is fun.”
Delilah raised a brow, and we walked out.
“What was that about?”
My mind clouded with all I hadn’t told her and what I could never tell my Dad. I pulled the words toge
ther and began, “God, Delilah—”
“You know what? Nevermind. I’m exhausted.”
So, I took the coward’s way out again and shut my mouth.
Chapter 15
Delilah
The corporate offices of KCRE were sleeker than I expected. Towering glass and granite encased the lobby with the echoes of foot traffic and the phone at reception dampened by the soft rush of a waterfall.
Griffin had instructed me to check in at the front desk, and his father’s assistant would come down to escort me to the executive floor. He was working there for the time being, talking with the staff and meeting with board members.
A man stepped off the elevator and turned toward the front desk. He was tall and everything about him was chiseled—broad shoulders, ebony jawline, and crisp, tailored suit. He was all edges.
“Delilah Johnston.”
His knowledge of my name threw me for a moment. “Yes. Do we know each other?”
“No, I was told someone needed to come down and get Griffin’s girlfriend. I’m Carter Cross.”
We shook hands, and my face heated. “How did you know it was me?”
“I’ve seen your picture.”
My confusion prompted him to continue.
“You’re…Terrence mentioned that his…you were dating my boss’ son. And I’ve seen pictures of you and Terrence before. You’re even more beautiful in person.” His charming grin sparkled.
“Thank you.” I glanced at the elevator, ready to get upstairs. I didn’t like the idea of my ex and this guy who’d been gossiping about Griffin trading stories about me as well.
“Okay, well, I’ll take you up. I just need to get a delivery from reception.” He paused and flashed the receptionist a perfect white grin. “Do you have that package for me, Carmela?”
She blushed, tittering. “Of course, Mr. Cross. I kept it here in the locked drawer. I know you said it was important. I called you as soon as the messenger brought it.”
The woman unlocked the file drawer under her desk and pulled out a white, legal-sized envelope, then handed it to the eager Mr. Cross. He looked inside, grinned, and winked at the charmed woman. “Perfect. Thanks.”
He then stepped aside and swung a hand in a wide gesture, ushering me from behind him toward the elevator. I headed that direction, and he walked beside me with long strides that made me have to walk faster.
I pushed the button. “So you’re not Gregory’s assistant.”
His smooth brow creased. “No, I’m not an assistant. I’m KCRE’s executive vice president of finance and operations.”
The amount of title fit with the amount of ego pouring off him. “Griffin mentioned that his father’s assistant would probably be down to get me,” I said.
He grimaced. “No, no, I was coming down to get this. I wanted to pick it up personally, and since I was coming down, I volunteered to bring you up myself. I wanted to meet you.”
I glanced at him sideways. “I didn’t mean to insult you by implying that you were a lowly assistant.” In my twenty years as an executive assistant, I’d met many arrogant men who looked down their noses at us as “the help.” Amazing how many of these allegedly smart people never learned that the assistants were often the key to getting things done.
“There’s nothing lowly about being an assistant. I’m just not one,” he replied in short clipped tones just within the bounds of cordial.
The elevator dinged, and we both stepped inside. He scanned his key card then pressed the button for the top floor. I looked out of the shining glass of the elevator to the landscape shrinking below us in uncomfortable silence. Then, Executive Vice President Carter led me out.
He scanned his badge again in front of a set of frosted glass doors. “After you.”
Plush carpet hushed the light bustle of activity and ringing phones. He stopped in front of an office. “This is Griffin’s office. He’s in a meeting, but he’ll be back. You can wait inside.”
In keeping with everything else in the building, the office was glittering and edged with stone and glass. A chrome bookcase dotted with vases and art pieces lined the full length of one long wall behind a glass desk. In the corner where the windows met, a circle of moon-shaped side chairs sat on a colorful, round Mondrian-esque rug. I crossed the room and dropped my bag in one of the chairs.
“A corner office for a guy who doesn’t work here?” I asked and turned to see the tall man’s reaction.
Impossibly, Carter’s face hardened even more. “It’s a family business. Gregory made sure Griffin still has an office.”
“He’s never here.”
“He’s here now.” The statement sliced the air as sharp as the man’s jawline.
I bristled. “For his family.”
“Of course. What do you do, Mrs. Johnston?”
“Ms.”
“Oh, my bad.” He pressed his hand to his double Windsor-knotted tie in apology, and I got a glimpse of the charming smile he gave the receptionist before it disappeared again.
“I was an executive assistant for twenty years.”
“Ah, a lowly assistant.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled, again, genuinely this time. The irritation gripping me relaxed and dissipated.
“Now, I have an organizing business.”
“Yes, Terrence mentioned that. Good for you,” he said in a tone so neutral I wondered if he meant it.
“I enjoy it so far. I work with families, create systems for the home, declutter—that kind of thing.”
“Like a black Marie Kondo.”
I met his hard gaze with one of my own. “Or just like Delilah Johnston Organizational Design.”
“Point taken. That organizing stuff is pretty popular.”
I curled my toes in my sensible shoes and struggled to stay congenial. “It is—especially now. I’ve been working with several clients since the first of the year. People want to start January organized and get their acts together.”
“It must be difficult for you to fly all the way over here just for Griffin.”
“He has a lot on his plate. I’m helping him.”
Carter laughed. “Yeah, I bet he could use a little organizing.”
I wanted to snap back about Griffin’s business plans but resisted. Having his girlfriend jump to his defense would likely weaken Griffin in the eyes of a man like Carter, so I gritted my teeth and let the comment pass. “He’s the kind of guy who has a lot of ideas and works quickly, and I’m good at helping him pull things together.”
“That’s right. You worked for Griffin, and now, you’re dating him.” That wasn’t a question. It was a statement delivered with some stank on it.
“I didn’t date him when we were working together. But after I left the company, we reconnected because he needed an organizer, and…we hit it off.”
Why I felt the need to defend myself to this man escaped me. The guy had no emotions except smugness, arrogance, and now disdain. He glared at me with his sleek, frozen, and—at the moment—punchable face.
“What?” I snapped.
“Nothing,” he replied in tone weighted with forced boredom. “I’m just trying to wrap my mind around the idea of your dating junior.”
I smirked. “I think Gregory Jr. is a little young for my taste. I don’t date guys with three-packs-a-day juice box habits.”
“You know what I mean. Griffin is…You seem…”
“Griffin is a grown man.”
Carter sneered, chuckling. “Okay.”
I unclenched the fists at my hips, rubbed my hands together, and straightened. “He hasn’t been back here in years, so how do you know anything about him at all?”
“I was at Duke at the same time he was there with Marisa. And I’ve known the entire family for years.”
“Were you friends with them in college?”
Carter’s face did that tilt-a-whirl thing again before settling back to nearly unreadable. “No, we weren’t friends. I just knew him. Everybody knew him. He was very popula
r. He and Marisa were quite the couple.”
My knees locked, and my mouth dropped open.
“Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You didn’t know about him and Marisa?”
For the first time, he reacted without an air of omniscient conceit, and then, I was on the receiving end of a fourth identifiable emotion from Carter Cross—pity.
How could Griffin have let me sit through an entire dinner with that woman and not mention that his “stepmother” had been his girlfriend? No wonder she could barely contain herself. Marisa was probably laughing at me the entire time. And those comments about how fun and wild Griffin was? Jesus, she said that in front of her husband. His father.
What. The. Fuck.
I wrangled my exploding thoughts and struggled not to let the sense of shock, betrayal, and straight-up pissed-offedness show on my face or in my voice. “I knew there was a history. The details…no.”
I’d swallow my tongue before admitting that this rather large “detail” had escaped both my notice and any of the backstory Griffin had given me.
Carter crossed his arms and sighed. “Marisa and Griffin were a couple in college. Homecoming king and queen, in fact. Sometime after college, I guess, they broke up. He was living in New York, but she stayed here and interviewed Gregory for a series she wrote for the newspaper. They started dating, quietly, then got married. It was strange at first, but whatever. It’s none of my business.”
My back stayed ramrod straight, and my face impassive even as trickles of sweat ran between my shoulder blades. I rolled my shoulders forward to help the blouse under my sweater absorb some of it.
That’s why things were so weird between Griffin and his dad. Here I was pushing for him to reconcile with the man who had stolen his girlfriend. What kind of father does that? Who dates a woman who has presumably had sex with his son? Of course, they had sex. Griffin wouldn’t date a girl without having sex. It finally made sense why he’d never come home and why he kept giving both of them so much side eye. That betrayal…
And he hadn’t told me.
Why would he keep his former relationship with Marisa secret? He could have just told me, and then everything would have made sense. I wouldn’t have been pushing.
