But of course he was an ass.
He had always been an ass.
Literally since the first day we met.
Thinking he was anything but was, well, the side effect of the holidays. I got wrapped up in the togetherness and the warmth and the traditions.
I had slapped on a pair of rose-colored glasses and moon-eyed someone I couldn't stand thee-hundred-and-sixty-something days of the year.
Well, the glasses were sure off now.
He wouldn't have to worry about me jumping him again.
Unless it was to strangle him.
That was a different—and much more likely—story.
I knew my parents wouldn't be happy about the one-eighty, were much more comfortable with the idea of Trip and I mending fences.
But, well, that was just something else I would have to deal with.
Because there was no way in hell I was going to be playing nice with Trip freaking Martin again.
Don't try that again.
Oh, he didn't need to trouble himself with that worry.
I'd never been more furious with the man before.
Which was saying something since I had once contemplated murdering him with a chipped off piece of an ice sculpture. The evidence would have melted. No one would have been able to pin it on me.
On that note, I cleaned up our mess, and made my way back to my room, throwing myself down on my bed, running off a never-ending list of reasons to hate him, fueling the fire inside.
I didn't stop to think, however, of why it suddenly took so much work to try to find things about him that I didn't like when it used to be so easy.
And I damn sure didn't let myself contemplate the aching, ripped-open sensation located in the left side of my chest.
Nothing good could come from that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Juliette
"You're up early," I observed, finding my father already up, dressed, and having his coffee on the back porch, watching the sun start to cast yellows and pinks across the seemingly never-ending sky.
I wasn't sure of the last time I had seen him awake before me. But, for a change, he had gone to sleep early the night before.
"That turkey knocked me out cold yesterday afternoon. I've been up for over an hour already. You off to take your walk?" he asked, nodding down at my travel mug in my gloved hand.
"Yeah. Gotta try to work off some of that food before we have another spread today."
"You two went even more overboard than usual," he agreed, but he wasn't complaining, that was for sure. The more food there is, the more times we could all enjoy it again. "Care for a little company?" he asked.
Involuntarily, something inside me seized at that, a strange sensation I needed to push down.
It wasn't that I didn't enjoy spending time with my father. In fact, I normally sought out rare moments when we could be totally alone together. It was no easy task given how popular a guy my father is.
But now, well, all that was on my mind was Trip recommending we drag the skeletons out from the closet, dust them off, and show them to each other.
He wasn't wrong. It was something that needed to happen. Our relationship hadn't been exactly the same since I had quit the company. We got along well for the most part. But the topic of work—his or mine—always tended to make us both get a little prickly.
While I did agree it was a talk we needed to have, I had maybe figured it would happen sometime down the road, that we were rarely alone, that I would never have that kind of conversation around my sensitive mother.
No one said we had to have the conversation now, though, even though we were going to be alone.
We could go at my pace.
When I felt ready.
"That'd be nice," I agreed.
"Trip told me you have a special spot with a fire pit."
"I do. It's my favorite spot out here," I agreed as we moved off into the woods.
"Would you show it to me?"
"Absolutely," I agreed.
Everything seemed fine at first.
We talked about the holiday, the plans for Christmas, what he was getting my mother even though she always insisted she had more than enough already, that he gave her the whole world.
You knew I was in a pissy mood when that thought—one that would normally make my heart feel all melty—made me grumble instead.
But then we got to my little spot.
My father got the fire started.
I opened up my coffee to sip, taking a deep breath, enjoying the view.
And then he brought it up.
The very thing I didn't want to discuss.
"So, I am glad to see you and Trip putting aside your differences on this holiday. You're my little girl. He's my right-hand man. It makes your old man feel good to see you two getting along."
Then he was in for a bitter disappointment when we got back to the house, ran into Trip, and the iceberg that was between us tipped him off that we were back to our old ways.
A large part of me wanted to just tell him, lay it on the table, let him know that our momentary truce was just a dopamine-infused bout of insanity.
I knew, though, what would happen.
He would ask what had happened with us.
I didn't care how open you were with your parents, how comfortable you are with your own sexuality. No one, I repeat no one, wanted to tell their father that the reason you couldn't get along with his friend was because you jumped him on the couch, only to get rejected by him.
That would not go over well for anyone involved.
Not to mention it would be I-want-the-Earth-to-swallow-me-up humiliating.
So I went the chicken route. I decided to let him find out on his own. Preferably while my mother was around to act as a buffer to his anger over the whole situation.
"It's been an... enlightening trip," I told him, choosing the words carefully, refusing to lie to his face, but also not wanting to tell him too much of the truth.
"I'm happy to hear that," he agreed, nodding. "There is, of course, a reason other than my own sanity for wanting the two of you to be able to get along."
"Oh, really?" I asked, not sure what that reason could be. Other than wanting to save face in front of all his employees. Which was fair.
"Yes. I actually—don't be mad at me—I discussed this with Trip a bit already actually. It's just—" He trailed off, raking a hand down his face that was getting redder from the cold by the moment. "I know work topics have been touchy for us for a long while now."
"I actually wanted to talk to you about that," I told him, happy for the segue, for the somewhat relaxed attitude he seemed to have about it at the moment.
"Good. I'm glad we are both ready to be open about this." He seemed to really mean that, too. My father wasn't exactly the mushy emotion kind of guy. While he was a talk-it-out sort much like I was, he didn't like when it got too wishy-washy, preferring it always stay a bit factual, leaving feelings out of it. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
My stomach contorted itself into a painful knot as I tried to find the right words to use to rip open this particular wound, one that had healed jagged and ugly, would fare better for the tearing and re-healing.
"I know you have never really understood why I up and left the company back when I did."
"No," he agreed, nodding. "I haven't ever understood that."
There was no thinking about the words that came next. They spilled out of me, raw, wet, ugly as they felt to keep them inside.
"I know you didn't want me. I know you wanted a son. I know you wanted to pass on the legacy to your son much like your father had done to you, like his father had done to him. I know that was always the plan. And I know I must have been a sore disappointment in comparison to that dream, to that planned legacy. I wanted it," I added, swiping the tear that refused to be contained off my cheek. "I had all these ideas and plans. But you never liked any of them. You never thought we thought the same way, saw the same
future for the company. It was painfully clear to me that you didn't think I fit, but would never say that to me because of Mom and because you're a good person. But I felt it. I felt it and I just... it was ruining our relationship. If it went on, I knew that we would never be able to mend things. So the safest thing was... well... to just leave. To let you find someone else more suitable for your legacy."
There.
It was out.
At least I was pretty sure it was.
I might have blacked out a little bit somewhere in that long, rambling confession.
But I was confident most of the important parts were covered.
The silence after it, though, was deafening. And I couldn't seem to find the courage to make my gaze find his face, gauge his reaction. I just sat. Terrified. While he processed what I had dumped all over him.
After a moment or two, I was starting to worry that I would get no reaction out of him, that I had just blown up our entire relationship with one confession.
"Okay," he said finally, putting me out of my misery, allowing me to drag in one ragged breath that burned my cold lungs. "First of all, if there was ever anything I never said to you, not doing so had nothing to do with not wanting to hurt your mother, and everything to do with not wanting to hurt you, Juliette. And I have clearly not done my job as your father if you ever, for one minute, thought you weren't wanted, Jett. You were wanted."
"Mom was..."
"I loved your mother. I always loved your mother. You know that. But from the moment I knew you could possibly be mine, too, you were mine. I wanted you. And loved you. Not because you were part of your mother. But because you were part of the future I saw for all of us. Because of the family I knew we would become."
"You wanted..."
"A family," he cut me off. "We are a family. And you have never, not for one moment, been a consolation prize. You were wanted and loved every moment of your life. I won't lie and say that your mother and I didn't plan to have more children. You know we did. You know it was a blow to hear that doing so was not a possibility. But not because you weren't enough. You were—and are—enough for us. And I am sincerely sorry if you ever thought otherwise, if my words or actions or silence and inaction created that well of insecurity inside of you. You have to know that was never my intention. I love you, kiddo," he told me, reaching over to grab the arm that was bent to bury my sobbing face in my hands. "And you were— and are—very wanted."
I'm not sure I ever realized just how badly I needed to hear that, how much my soul was aching for that validation, those words of love and inclusion.
Having them, though, it pushed all those old feelings up and out, purging them like they needed, walling off the well they'd been living in, never to allow it to fill again.
"Now," he said after I managed to pull myself somewhat together with some deep breathing and horribly noisy sniffling. "As for the stuff about Kensley. I am not going to lie. You know that we never had the same vision for it. Not because we don't share blood, Jetty, but because we just see the world a little differently. It's not a bad thing. You know it has never been a bad thing. I implemented some of your suggestions to make the plant greener. We extended maternity leave, and created paternity leave. I have always given your ideas thought. And have put the ones that worked with my vision for the future to work for us. They have been some of our most widely praised changes. You made us a better company. But not in the same capacity you maybe had envisioned doing."
"'Sometimes expectations and reality don't line up,'" I said, parroting something I had heard him say many times over the years.
"Exactly. You were always a vital part of the team. In hindsight, though, I have to admit that I didn't always make that as clear to you as it always seemed to me. That is my mistake. I'm sorry for that too."
"It's okay," I told him, reaching to put my hand over his.
Incredibly, it was. Okay. I wasn't just feeding him platitudes, trying to make him feel better.
It was okay.
Pain purged, I was suddenly able to see things a lot more clearly than I had been able to when I'd been so consumed by it.
We'd both been at fault for keeping our mouths shut when the most constructive—and—cathartic thing would have been to speak our fears and frustrations, get them on the table to be discussed and moved on from.
Burying feelings never, ever, lead anywhere constructive.
"Feel a little better?" he asked, uncomfortably shifting his gaze over to the water.
"A lot better," I clarified, taking a deep breath. "Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?"
"The future," he told me, nodding.
"The future of Kensley?" I clarified.
"Yes. And it involves both you and Trip."
I always knew it would involve Trip.
I didn't, however, see how I would play in.
"Me?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"I refuse to see a future of my company without you in it, Jetty."
"But... but we don't see the same way about it."
"No," he agreed, nodding, not one for lying to me. "But Trip does see the same future I do for it. So he would be in charge of the car features and models and such. You would be more in charge of the office stuff. The social media you are so good at. But to have the two of you at the helm, I would need you talking to each other. Without trying to rip each other's heads off. To set a good example for the employees. To keep things running smoothly."
He wanted me and Trip to co-run the company?
I was—at once—both incredibly moved.
And deeply horrified.
We couldn't agree on the food at an event. And we were supposed to run a company together?
Add in the whole attraction and rejection thing.
It was the perfect recipe for a probable homicide if I ever saw one.
"You want Trip and I to run the company when you retire," I repeated.
"That is the dream I have for the future."
Honestly, it had been my dream as well. Minus Trip. Now that I knew it was a possibility again, I could see all the pieces of my life falling together.
I could move back to my hometown.
I could buy my fixer-upper.
I could work in the family business.
I could spend my free time with my mom redecorating my place.
I could have my parents over for Sunday dinners.
It was everything I had ever wanted.
Plus Trip.
It wouldn't be easy, but maybe I could learn to live with that. Work with him.
If it meant everything else I had ever wanted was to be mine.
"I like your dream, Dad," I told him, giving him a genuine smile, the kind that hurt my cheeks.
"I like it too," he agreed, clamping his hands on his knees. "Okay, what do you say we get back to the house? I'm sure your mother is up working on some dippy eggs right now."
"Dippy eggs are disgusting," I informed him, as I always did.
"I'm sure she will make you your eggies in a basket."
"I'm starving," I realized, falling into step beside him, letting myself lean into his side slightly. "I'm glad we cleared all this up," I told him as we were almost at the house.
"Me too," he agreed, pressing a kiss to my temple in a show of affection he wasn't often known for.
"There you two are!" my mother cheered as we came in, smile bright. "I made dippy eggs," she declared, pushing a plate across the island toward my father who happily took it. "And one eggie in a basket," she told me as she took her plate to follow my father into the dining room. Almost seeming in a rush.
I couldn't figure out why at first until I saw Trip move into view.
"Were you crying?" he asked, brows low.
"No," I snapped, grabbing my plate, lying because the truth was none of his damn business.
"Bullshit, Princess," he shot back, gaze steady on mine as I forced my chin up, then plowed past him, choosing to take my food up to my room, nee
ding a few minutes alone to try to work through my thoughts about the morning, about what it meant for my future.
Doing so around Trip was not going to be easy.
Sure, I would need to learn to get over that. We would have to coexist. Somewhat harmoniously.
To accomplish that, I figured our best bet was to avoid each other as much as possible. We couldn't argue if we didn't see each other.
To get everything I wanted, I could deal with him.
Maybe, some day, after some time had passed, we could actually get along. We'd proved it was possible. If we were both mature enough to keep personal feelings out of professional affairs, we could pull it off.
No one wanted us locked in an office, screaming our heads off about new model ideas or marketing plans, passions flaring, tempers flying.
Why my mind insisted on finishing that mental image with the idea of him bending me over the desk in my office was completely beyond me.
Because that was completely out of the question.
I didn't want that.
All that was over.
And even if maybe a teensy bit of the attraction was lingering, it damn sure had to be gone by the time we would need to start working together.
So what better way than to make sure it was over right this very moment?
The funny thing is, though, your mind can try to tell you one thing. But the other parts of you, yeah, they all have their own agenda.
CHAPTER NINE
Trip
I wasn't someone who experienced stress and anxiety.
Generally, I figured if there was a problem, I had to find a way to solve it. If there was a solution, there was no reason to stress about it. If there wasn't, then, well, you had to let it go.
It was easy for me.
But after the movie, after the kiss, after rejecting her, I took myself to my room, intent on just going to bed, thinking it all through in the morning.
Then went ahead and paced my room for hours.
Trying to figure out how things went so wrong so quickly.
I'd just wanted some pie.
I had planned to eat it in my room, then go back to bed.
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