He shrugs. “It was my own goddamned fault. No one held a gun against my head. I made all those stupid mistakes on my own.”
“So, the stories are true?”
“Most of them. I want you to know I’m not proud, Cole. That time was hard, I was a self-absorbed, self-destructive dick. All I can do today is work at being a better man. Especially now, well, now there’s you.” His smile is earnest, kind. Parental.
Exactly what I want him to be.
“Thank you for telling me about that. I mean, I’d read stuff about you, but to hear it from you is a real privilege.”
“I think it’s important you know what kind of person your old man is.”
“Was,” I correct.
“Yeah, was. I’m clean now, happy, married to this great girl.”
I think of the woman I saw Rex with when I met him yesterday. “Letitia, right?”
He smiles. “You’ve done your homework. She’s done a lot for me. I’m lucky to have her.” I must have a look of disbelief on my face because he adds, “I know she looks like an extra from Baywatch, but she’s got a good heart, you know? She was there when I was at my lowest. She’s good people.”
I smile back at him, guilty at having judged a book by its cover. “Good to hear it.”
“Anyway, knowing my story, maybe you can see why your mom kept you away from me all these years? I wouldn’t have been much of a dad to you. Nikki wanted to protect you from who I was, and it was the right thing to do.”
I lock my jaw at the mention of her name. “That’s what she keeps telling me.”
He leans in closer to me. “Look, Cole, your mom’s not perfect.”
I scoff. “You got that right.”
“She was doing her best. Back then I was a young guy with a big dream. I didn’t plan on having a kid.”
“I get it.”
“Do you? Because Nikki said you’re all tore up about it.”
My anger flares, spreading heat through my torso and down my arms. “You’re talking to her?”
He nods. “She’s worried about you. She thinks she’s messed everything up.”
“She has.”
“Look, I get it. But please, take it easy on her. If you’re going to be angry with anyone, be angry with me.”
“You?”
“I went along with it all. Your grandparents said they’d help out, and at the time, it seemed like the ideal outcome. Together with your mom, they could give you something I couldn’t: love, security, a home. I was a seventeen-year-old kid who had big dreams, and staying in Hamilton, becoming a responsible dad, wasn’t part of them. I know that’s shitty to hear. Believe me, it’s best that I stayed away. I would have been a lousy father back then.”
I look down as my insides twist in pain for the lonely boy I was, hiding out in my room, wishing for something I never had. But I’m not that kid anymore. And I’m here to forge a relationship with my father. I look up at him. “You’re right, it’s not easy to hear. But I appreciate your honesty.”
“All we can do is start from here.”
“Yeah.”
His expression changes. “Hey, enough about me. What about you? Tell me about your life. What’s important to you, the big stuff.”
“I don’t know where to start. I mean, I guess you know I grew up in Hamilton, and I still live there. I’ve got my own place, just a little cottage but it’s where I hang my hat, and it’s perfect for me.”
“And you perform.”
“Yeah, sometimes, at my friend’s bar in Nashville. It started out as a favor for him, but I love it.”
“You’re talented.”
“I guess I get that from you.”
He laughs. “The heir to my pop kingdom.”
“Yeah, about that,” I lead.
“I know I laid it on pretty thick yesterday. That whole King of Pop thing. I was nervous about meeting you.”
“You were?”
“Of course. The son I never knew? I half expected you to punch me in the face. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“Is that why Nashville hung around? To make sure I didn’t do anything to you?”
“Not really. That’s just Nashville. He’s always got to make sure I’m happy.”
“Must be nice to have a friend like that.”
“He was the one who got me to go to rehab, helped me clean up my life. Without him, I don’t know what would have become of me. When someone does something big like that for you, it forges a strong bond.”
“That explains how wary he is with me.”
“Give him time. He’s a good man when you get to know him.” He drains his coffee cup and places it back on the table. “Tell me, have you got a girl?”
My mind turns to Gabby before I can stop myself, and my lips curve into a smile.
“By the look in your eyes, I’d say that’s a big fat yes. What’s she like?”
“It’s nothing really. Just a girl I met here in the city.”
He looks surprised. “You only just met her and she’s responsible for that goofy look on your face?”
“I do not look goofy.”
“Sorry, you do.”
I admit defeat with a single shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. She’s great, but I’m not looking for anyone right now.”
“Well, you might not be looking, but I think you found her, all the same.”
I open my mouth to reply and close it again. Maybe he’s right? Maybe you can’t plan these things?
“By the looks of you, you’ve got it bad. You slept with her yet?”
Before I get the chance to reply, a lens is thrust in our faces. “Hey, Rex Randall! How’s the recording going?”
I look up to see a man about Rex’s age, wearing jeans and a crumpled shirt, his professional-looking camera flashing.
“It’s going great, thanks,” he says while wearing what looks to me like a public smile.
“Who’s this handsome guy?” The photographer quickly snaps a handful of shots of us together. Heads turn in our direction, and I can hear Rex’s name murmured around the coffee house.
“That’s the guy from that band.”
“It’s Rex Randall.”
“I thought he was dead.”
Rex leans across the table. “We need to get out of here.”
“You got it.”
We stand while Rex talks into his phone, giving instructions to someone—probably Nashville, his trusty dog. I try my best to shield him from the persistent photographer, but he’s been joined by every Tom, Dick, and Harry who’ve pulled out their cell phones, snapping shots of him. We exit through the gathering crowd.
Out on the sidewalk, another man holding a camera calls out to Rex from across the street. We walk away from the park, quickening our pace as it becomes clear the photographers are now following us.
“You know what? These days, I’m happy for a bit of publicity, but I want to protect you,” Rex says.
“They won’t know anything about me.”
“You’d be surprised what they can find out. Why don’t you go. I’ll deal with them.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure I should.”
“Cole, I admire your sense of duty, but I’ve got this. Here.” He points at an entrance to a store. “Go in there. Stay for a while. I’ll deal with these guys.”
“But—”
“Just do it, okay? You’ve said you don’t want people to know you’re my son yet and disappearing about now is the best way to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
I nod. I know what he’s saying makes sense. He’s used to this kind of bullshit. I’m totally green—and, if I have anything to do with it, that’s the way it will stay.
Rex touches my arm. “Let’s rehearse the song tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.” He throws me a quick smile, turns, and walks toward the photographers. “Gentlemen.”
While I get Rex can handle himself, it seems coldhearted to leave him and save my own skin. I remain rooted to the spot, watching as
he stops to answer the photographer’s questions, pose for the cameras, looking every inch the celebrity he is.
When one of them glances my way, I tear my eyes from Rex’s back and slink inside the store as he’d told me to do. As I make my way through the store’s bassinettes and cribs, and up an escalator, my limbs tingle with hope. Rex made some mistakes in his life, big mistakes, and he’s definitely a hard guy to get to spend time with. But I can tell he’s a good man, a decent man.
The type of man I’m proud to call my father.
Chapter 13
Gabriella
“Here you are, honey.” Priscilla hangs the clean dresses up on a hook by the counter. Their sequins glint in the morning light, visible through the fine plastic sheaths of the dry cleaning bags.
“Thank you so much for getting these done so quickly.”
“Happy to help,” Priscilla says with a wink. “Did you find the thing you lost yesterday? What was it again?”
“I did. It was a shoe.” I grin busts out across my face.
“By the look of you, that’s some shoe.”
“It sure is.” I pull it out of the bag Stavros gave me and hold it up for her to see.
Priscilla takes it in her hands and turns it over. “It’s so pretty. Manolo Blahnik. Even I’ve heard of him. Very ritzy.”
I smile at her use of the word “ritzy.” It’s how I used to refer to Mom when she’d get dressed up, going to some black-tie affair or another with Dad. They made a good-looking pair; my handsome dad in a perfectly tailored suit, escorting my beautiful mom in one of her gowns.
Priscilla passes the shoe back, and I reach up and collect the hangers from the hook. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon with more of these.”
“Okay, honey.”
I turn to leave and pause when Priscilla asks, “When’s your dad back? You said he’s been away for a while. I’ve been thinking about you and your little sister.”
The thought of my father’s continued absence kicks any warm feelings I’m having right now right to the curb. “Oh, there’s no E.T.A. for him yet, but I know he’ll be back soon.” I pull the door open, eager to get away from this conversation.
“That’s good to hear. See you soon!” Priscilla calls out.
I turn and wave before I let the glass door close after me. I make my way down the street, my arms heavy; the garments and shoe banging against my leg with every step. As I stand on the curb, I raise my hand to flag a cab. I think about Dad, about the fact he’s been gone for months and months now. It’s been too long for Cece. Too long for me.
Don’t get me wrong, I totally get that he needed to destress his life. I get that his heart was broken, I get that the woman he tried to replace Mom with turned out to be nothing more than a gold-digging narcissist. But what about those he left behind? Don’t we deserve to be happy, too?
I grind my teeth as my insides churn with conflicting emotions. Despite my growing anger at Dad, I miss him. Mostly, I miss the way he was before Mom died, before Sylvia, before all of this. I miss the confidence I had in his love for me.
Now that confidence feels like misplaced trust.
I’m so deep in thought I don’t notice a taxi pulled up beside me until the driver sounds her horn. I shake myself out of my reverie and get in, being careful not to crease the dresses. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No problem. Where to?” My driver’s voice sounds like she’s had a pack-a-day habit all her life, right back from when she was in diapers.
I give her my home address, sit back, and pull my phone out of my purse. There are messages from Raffy and Izzy, demanding details of the rest of my evening with Cole. I promise to fill them in and type a fresh message to Cole. I make it deliberately light and flirty.
Tennessee, text me when you’ve finished being a sad-sack tourist. Kermit.
I press “send” and wait. And wait. I stare at my screen and will him to reply. No flashing dots. No response. I drum my fingers in frustration. Thinking about my dad reminds me how much I need the chance to showcase my talents to Rex Randall. I need that to happen. Today.
I stare at the screen the whole trip, only tearing my eyes from it as the cab pulls onto my street. Disappointed, I shove my phone back in my purse.
Don’t let me down now, Cole.
Back in the penthouse, there’s still no sign of life. Oh, to be a Tremaine, sleeping until all hours, only ever having to think about what to wear for the day. With a sigh, I hang the dresses up in the hallway closet and place the shoe carefully on a shelf.
I make my way to the kitchen, where I set about putting the coffee on, whisking eggs, and buttering toast for them, just as I do every morning. I sneak a mouthful of scrambled eggs as I arrange the plates with mugs of coffee on three separate trays, ready for me to deliver.
“Where have you been?” Sylvia says behind me. The unexpected sound of her voice makes me jump. She has got to be the queen of the sneak-up.
I quickly chew and swallow my mouthful, pick up one of the trays in my hands, and turn to face her. “I’ve been making everyone breakfast. Here.” I offer her the tray.
She rests her hands on her hips. “I heard you come back in, so I will repeat myself. Where have you been?”
“I went to get the dresses from the cleaners. They’re hanging in the hallway closet next to the fixed shoe.”
Unable to find any fault, she stretches her hands out. “Breakfast.”
I pass her the tray and suppress a smile. Gabby: one. Sylvia: zero. You’ve got to celebrate the small victories.
She taps her finger against the marble counter where she has placed a piece of paper. “Here’s the list of things for you to do today before you come to meet us. The girls are rehearsing, and I’ll need you there.”
“Yes, Sylvia.”
As she retreats to the dining room with her breakfast, I balance the two remaining trays and walk down the hallway to what were Cece and my bedrooms, now occupied by the spawn.
I knock on Kylie’s door and push my way in. “Breakfast, Kylie.” It’s dark and the air is stale. I step carefully over the clothes-strewn floor, praying I don’t accidentally pull off a repeat performance of yesterday’s green smoothie debacle, particularly as there’s no Cole to catch me this time.
I place one of the trays carefully next to her bed. “Scrambled eggs on toast with coffee.”
She grunts in response.
I carry the final meal to what was once my bedroom and knock on the door. I push it open without waiting for a reply. “I’ve brought you’re—” I stop midsentence as I take in the murky, dimly lit scene before me. Britney’s still lying in her bed, just as she is most days at this time. Today, she’s not alone. Instead, she’s snuggled up to a man, her head resting on his bare chest.
She opens her eyes and lifts her head. “What are you doing here?”
What I do every day. “I’ve got your breakfast.”
She pushes herself up to a sitting position, and I thank the stars above she’s wearing a top, flimsy as it may be. “Leave it and get out,” she hisses, her tone low and threatening.
I don’t need to be told twice.
On a chest of drawers close by, I place the tray down, ready to beat a hasty retreat.
The guy in her bed lifts his head and rubs his eyes. “What’s going on, babe?” His voice is groggy with sleep.
“Nothing. Just our house-girl interrupting us. She’s leaving.”
House-girl? Who does she think she is? I clench my jaw and swallow down a retort. I’ve learned from bitter experience that there’s no point fighting back.
Not yet, anyway.
Feeling about as comfortable as a hippo in Spandex, I step out into the hall.
“Babe? I should go,” I hear the guy say.
“Stay. We can do that thing again,” Britney whines.
I shudder and shut the door over fully. The last thing I want to know is what the “thing” is she’s promising him. Why Britney wants to k
eep him here with the very real risk of being discovered by her mother, I cannot fathom. Still, it’s her problem, not mine.
I reach the kitchen and find Sylvia sitting at the marble counter, her phone in hand, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks up, regarding me over the top of her glasses. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Well, I mean I talked to Britney a little when I delivered her breakfast. That’s all.”
“But Britney doesn’t like to talk to anyone in the morning.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
Sylvia looks down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She removes her glasses, folds them up, and places them carefully on the counter then walks out of the kitchen.
I chew on my lip, working out what to do. If I try to stop Sylvia from discovering the man in Britney’s room, she will see me as an accomplice and find some way to twist it so it’s all my fault. But Britney’s spite is legendary, and she is perfectly capable of making my life even more miserable than it is. The fact I didn’t breathe a word to her mother will be completely irrelevant.
Randomly, my mind darts to a scene on Friends where Monica is trying to get her parents to let up about her single status. Her brother, Ross, steps in to help her out by taking the spotlight off her. He tells their parents that not only has his wife left him for a woman, but she’s having a baby he fathered. Instead of being upset with Ross, their mom turns to Monica and says, “And you knew about this?”
When it comes to Sylvia, I’m Monica. I get blamed for everything, even if, like the woman herself, I had zero to do with Ross’s lesbian ex-wife and his unborn child.
I can hear Sylvia tapping on Britney’s door. Unless the guy has managed to extricate himself from Britney’s talons in the few moments since I left, World War III is about to break out.
And the last thing I want to do is stick around for that.
When there’s no response, Sylvia knocks on the door once more. “Britney? Darling?”
I glance down the hall where Sylvia is now pushing her way through the door to Britney’s room. Oh, no. I need to make my escape, and fast.
Manhattan Cinderella Page 15
