by Meghan Quinn
And just like that, he sucker-punches me in the heart. One sentence. One sentence completely extinguishes the excitement that had been bustling inside. How can he use so few words yet smash my hopes and dreams completely? How is it he knows so little about me and what my dreams are?
With a droplet of hope left, I say, “I’m not asking for money from you, Daddy. You don’t have to invest in anything, I’m requesting to have my inheritance released early.”
“I worked hard for my kids to have an inheritance, Gigi, and I’m not about to watch you blow it on some pipe dream.”
“Blow it? Trying to start a business, trying to become an entrepreneur isn’t blowing my money, Daddy. It’s following in your footsteps. If you want to talk about blowing money, why don’t you talk to Spencer who is bleeding cash in the city?”
Spencer just received his inheritance. He is having a damn fine time wasting it away on menial things like expensive penthouses, over-the-top dates, and bad investments.
“Spencer is taking chances and learning from every experience he comes across.”
“So why can’t I take a chance then?”
“Because, it’s not your role, Gigi. Your role is to assist your mother with her charities, find a well-respected man who can take care of you financially, and add to the value of our family name through a beautiful smile and a caring hand.” Add value. I can only add value by marrying and being taken care of? How can my father have so little faith in me as a person? How can he see me so . . . needy of being indulged. I’m not. I deserve to be respected . . .
My teeth grind together, my ears turn hot, and tears of frustration start to fill my eyes. Do not cry in front of him. Whatever you do, do not show weakness, because then he will never respect you.
Knowing I have zero chance at winning him over, I hold my head high and stand from my chair, gathering my presentation materials. “Well, thank you for listening.” The words feel like tar falling from my mouth. If I learned anything from my dad, it was never show your cards.
“You’re welcome, precious.” I turn toward his door when he says, “Oh, Gigi, don’t forget this.” Chauncey’s number is extended toward me, trailed by a condescending smile from my father.
Carefully, without snatching the paper out of his hand, avoiding a paper cut to my dad’s finger, I take the number and exit his office. In a steady pace, my heels clack across the marble floor and up the curved staircase until I reach my room where I quietly shut the door and sink to the floor. Chauncey’s number is crumbled in my hand as defeat settles in my shoulders.
Deep down, that presentation went just as I expected it would—zero interest resulting in zero hope. Twice today, condescending men have put me in my place. One a consequential man I love, one an arrogant, inconsequential man I loathe. Surely I’m more than that.
What do I do now?
Chapter Three
GEORGIANA
“AJ, go ahead, touch Mirabelle one more time, see what happens,” Waverly, my sister-in-law, says to her eight-year-old son.
“I wasn’t touching her,” he replies.
“Was to,” Mirabelle, the four-year-old, replies. “He was pokin’ my arm.”
“Was not.”
“Was to.”
“Was not.”
“Was—”
“I don’t care who was poking who,” Waverly roars, looking like a classy version of fed up with pearls clasped around her neck and kitten heels gracing her feet. “There will be no more poking in this house or Daddy is going to start poking, and you’re not going to like it.” I lift my eyebrow at Waverly.
“Does Daddy poke hard?” Mirabelle asks, clutching her doll to her chest.
“Really hard. Incessantly until you end up screaming.” Both kids’ eyes go wide before they start to back away slowly out of the living room. “Believe me, Mommy is the only one who can handle Daddy’s poking, so I suggest you shake hands and play nicely. Got it?”
They nod their heads just as Abe walks in, scaring both children. They run away and say, “We don’t want to see Daddy’s poker.”
Loosening his tie, he turns to Waverly, “Do I even want to know?”
She giggles, presses a light kiss on his jaw, and shakes her head. “I don’t think you do.”
“That was horrifying,” I cut in. “Everything about that threat was wrong. Mommy is the only one who can handle Daddy’s poker? Come on, Waverly.”
“What?” She smiles. “It’s true.”
“Jesus,” Abe mutters in laughter and pours himself a snifter of brandy. “Mother of the year.”
“Damn straight.” She kicks off her heels and pulls off her earrings, which she tosses on the side table.
The moment Abe brought Waverly home to meet the family, I knew we were going to get along. I saw through her fake snob façade, her plastic pearls, and sweater sets and immediately knew she was different than any girl my dad would dream for his eldest son. She’s independent, strong, armed with a beautiful mind, and knows how to work my parents into believing she’s the picture-perfect wife for my brother; when in fact, she likes to eat a bag of chips in one sitting in her underpants, ride a bull with seven drinks in her system, and belch the alphabet louder than any person I’ve ever heard. She’s real and perfect for my brother, who needs her kind of fun in his pre-planned life.
Their relationship hasn’t always been perfect. They’ve had their dark moments, but being apart was more detrimental than being together, so they made it work. Waverly pulled on the sweater sets, and Abe adjusted to our father’s demands . . . mostly.
“Drink?” Abe asks.
“Club soda with a slice of lime?”
“Yup.” He nods and then turns to Waverly. “Anything for you, sweetie?”
Waverly looks between the both of us and shakes her head, amusement in her eyes. “Bud Light, none of this fancy drink shit for me. Give me the piss water.”
Like I said, I love this girl.
“I know what my lady likes.” Abe opens the mini fridge that rests under his bar and cracks open a Bud Light for Waverly. When he hands it to her, she takes a long pull from the can and then smacks her lips together.
“Man, that’s good stuff.”
Abe takes a seat next to Waverly whose feet are stretched out along the couch. He picks them up, sits down, and then puts them on his lap. He massages one foot while he drinks from his glass. Nodding at me, he asks, “What’s new, G? Did you talk to Dad?”
I sigh and take a sip of my drink. “I did.”
“From the way you’re not beaming with joy, I’m going to say it didn’t go well.”
I shake my head. “It didn’t.”
“What did you talk about?” Waverly asks, looking slightly pissed that she’s not in the know.
Abe turns to Waverly and squeezes her knee. “G was looking to score some dough off the old man.”
“Oh?” Waverly lifts an eyebrow in my direction. “Wanting to get into the drug circle or something?”
“Yes,” I deadpan. “I asked my rich, debutante of a father for money to start my own underground drug ring.”
“And he said no? Blasphemy!” Waverly throws a hand in the air, a smile on her face.
“She wanted him to invest in her idea.” Abe brings the conversation back to reality.
“Not invest, but give me access to my trust fund early.” Would it have been nice for my dad to invest in his daughter’s idea? Yeah, that would have been great, but I believed asking for my trust fund may have been an easier hill to climb. Clearly I was wrong.
“For what? Your bridal shop idea?” Waverly asks after she takes another sip of her beer.
“Yeah.” I sit back in my seat and recount the conversation I had with my sexist father. “I had everything planned out to the nines. I didn’t let one stone go unturned. I had graphs, charts, predictions, and every cent divided out so no money was wasted. I put my heart and soul into that presentation, and you know what?” I look up to the ceiling, remembering
the look of pride on my father’s face. “He was freaking proud of me. I could see it in his eyes; he was scoring my presentation. He asked questions and I answered them without skipping a beat.”
Abe points his drink at me and says, “I looked over your presentation; it was one of the best I’ve ever seen.”
“And I bet if you were the one who presented it, Dad would be asking how many checks he could write.”
Waverly huffs and takes another sip of her drink. “I love you, Abe, but your father is a dick.”
“He is,” Abe agrees.
“Needless to say, he said no; he told me my place wasn’t in the entrepreneur field but rather looking for a husband who can support me.”
“He did not,” Waverly protests.
I nod. I sip my club soda, wishing I asked for something a little stronger. “He did. He even gave me the number of Chauncey, his friend’s son.”
Waverly sits up now and stares me dead in the eyes. “Chauncey McAdams?” I nod and she rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, please tell me you didn’t take his number.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be calling him. I’m not interested in any kind of relationship right now, especially with a guy my dad recommends.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you dating any of those dickheads. They’re just going to treat you like some kind of trophy wife, and you’re so much more than that.” I love that I have Waverly in my corner. If only my dad saw me the same way. I shouldn’t have to grow a penis in order for him to agree to my business.
“Thanks,” I sigh. “So, I guess that’s the end of that.”
“You can always wait until you turn twenty-eight and get your trust fund,” Waverly suggests.
“I could, but there is no way the location I picked out would still be available. I don’t think I’ll ever find another storefront like that at such a good bargain. It’s hopeless.”
Abe clears his throat and leans forward. “It might not be hopeless.”
I eye him. “What do you mean?”
“What if I gave you the money?”
Hope springs through my veins. “Are you serious?”
He nods. “I looked over your presentation, G. It was legit. You have a great business plan, and if you keep your start-up costs low like you planned, you could easily make this a thriving business in the first year. I would be happy to invest. Proud actually.”
I lean forward in my chair and rest my drink on the coffee table. “You mean it, you would invest in my business, in me?”
“He would be a dumbass not to,” Waverly cuts in. “Because if he didn’t, he would be facing a sad few months of celibacy, and not by his choice.”
“Nice to know where your head’s at, sweetie.”
Waverly pats his leg. “Just reminding you who wears the pants in this relationship.”
I bite my bottom lip and glance at my brother who is nothing but happy. He really chose well when he chose Waverly. “It’s five hundred thousand dollars, Abe.”
“Psh, chump change,” Waverly says, waving her hand. “Want it in cash?”
“Why don’t you sit back and drink your beer, sweetie. Five hundred thousand in cash is not something we’re going to do.” Abe turns to me. “I can do a check. We can go down to the bank tomorrow and open a business account. It will be easier to do a quick transfer from my account to yours.”
“This is real? You’re really going to do this?”
Abe smiles brightly at me. “One hundred percent, G. I . . . no . . . we believe in you and don’t want you to end up like our sister. You have ambition, and I don’t want anyone to extinguish that, even our dad. You’ve paid your dues with Mom’s charity. It’s time you do what you want to do.”
“Oh my God.” Tears well up in my eyes. “I love you so much.” I fling myself at him and wrap my arms around his body. “You’re my favorite brother.”
“There really is no contest, but thanks.”
“I can’t believe this. I’m going to make this happen. It’s real.”
“It is.” Abe laughs but then straightens up and whispers, “Just don’t tell Dad I’m the one who gave you the money.”
Waverly snorts and mutters, “Fucking pansy.”
***
“I’m going to give him the money back.”
“What?” Madison sits up on the lounge chair in protest. “Why the hell would you do that?”
We’ve been sunbathing for the past half hour, chatting about the shop and the inventory I can stock up on when I received yet another email from a construction company saying they can’t work with me.
You’re going to be shocked. Word spread quickly that I found an investor and was looking for a construction company to help remodel the shop, and guess what? Daddy dearest found out. Being the amazing father he is—hear the sarcasm—he sent a warning to all construction companies in a one-hundred-mile radius that they mustn’t accept a job request from me, and given he owns every lumberyard and concrete business in the area, no one would dare mess with their relationship. Leaving me with absolutely no one to work with.
“Because, no one will work with me. My dad has a monopoly in construction around here.” That thought never crossed my mind.
“You’re telling me you can’t find one single person to do your remodeling?”
“No one.” I faceplant into my lounge chair, hating every ounce of my life right now.
Madison is silent for a second as she sips on her drink. “What if we did it? I mean, how hard could it be?”
That makes me laugh—a little like a crazy person—but it makes me laugh nonetheless. “Madison, we know nothing about building shelves, let alone how to remodel. I’m sure if we attempted painting, we would mess it up somehow. Have you ever even looked at a hammer or tape measure before?”
“Uh yeah, I look at them all the time when that hot construction guy is using them. Where is he by the way? Shouldn’t he be here by now?”
I look around the backyard but see no sign of him. I shrug. “I have no clue. Maybe he’s done.”
Madison points at the pool house. “The siding is half done. I don’t think he’s finished.” She pauses and then lifts her head, her face looking maniacal. “Oh my God, hire the hot guy.” It’s clear it’s time for an intervention. Madison has been out in the sun too long.
“You mean the hot guy who hates me because I poked a hole in his hose? Yeah, because I’m sure he’s really going to want to work with me. Anyway, I think he works for Julius Parsnip Constructions. My dad is good friends with Julius, so there is no way hot guy will want to cross paths with that.”
“You never know, maybe he’s a rebel.”
I think about it for a brief second when the side gate slams shut and hot guy comes stalking through the yard with a very unpleasant look on his face.
“Speak of the devil.” Madison pokes me with her sunglasses to take hot guy in. “Go ask him.”
Hot guy starts to pick up where he left off, looking aggressive in his every movement.
“I’m not going to ask him. He clearly is not in a good mood, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to say no.”
“You don’t know that.”
I look over at hot guy and then back at Madison. “I’m almost one hundred percent positive it’s going to be a no.”
“Ugh, where did your balls go?” Waving at hot guy, she says, “Yoo-hoo, hot guy, will you come over here?”
Under my breath, I yell at her, “What the hell are you doing?”
She whispers back, “Making things happen for you.” She shouts again. “Hot guy, yoo-hoo, over here.”
He turns toward us and says, “It’s Racer, and I don’t have time for your fucking games.”
Racer. How can that name make every vein in my body tingle? And why does today’s attitude turn me on? There is something seriously wrong with me.
Leaning toward Madison, I say, “Told you. He’s not the guy. Don’t bother him.”
“Racer, come here. Come have a chat.” Apparent
ly Madison has other ideas.
He stares us both down, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out earbuds. Without breaking eye contact, he pops them in his ears, turns on his music, then turns around and starts working again.
“Well,” Madison huffs. “He’s rude.”
“Did you not catch that from the way he first spoke to us? I told you he wasn’t the guy.”
“You don’t know that. He might be the guy, he’s just going to be a dick about it.” Madison picks up a leftover orange on our tray of food, cocks her arm back, and throws it at Racer, missing completely but breaking the fruit on the siding he’s working on. His shoulders tense from the surprise citrus. He slowly turns toward us where he finds Madison pointing a finger at me.
I swat her finger away and motion to Racer that I was not the thrower of the fruit, but it doesn’t seem to work. He stalks toward us, anger in his eyes and rippling muscles in his chest about to bulge past the thin white cotton tee he’s wearing. Good Lord, the man is sexy.
When he reaches our chaise lounges, he places his hands on his hips and says, “What the hell do you want? Just want to fuck around with the hired help? Have nothing better to do?”
“No.” Madison holds her head high. “We actually have a question for you. If you weren’t so rude and moody and just came over when we asked, Georgiana wouldn’t have had to throw fruit at you.”
“I did not throw the fruit. Madison did,” I say weakly in an effort to defend myself. Racer eyes me for a brief moment and then turns back toward Madison.
“What’s your question? I’m behind on my work, and I have Mr. Westbrook breathing down my neck to get it done today, I don’t have time for this bullshit. The last thing I need is for his daughter and her spoiled friend to throw food at me because you have nothing better to do in your privileged life.”
“That’s not fair,” I reply, sitting a little taller in my seat. “You can’t make assumptions like that. You don’t know us. We might have plenty to do, and you have no idea.” It’s a lie; I have nothing to do. Absolutely. NOTHING! It’s one of the main reasons I want my shop so bad. I want to be responsible for creating happiness and purpose in my life, not sitting back waiting for someone to give me those things.
