Dell signs at all the requisite places. “I’m paying for your services on this out of my own pocket. It’s my money, my interest in the family business, so it’s my decision.” He slides the contract over to me, along with the pen. “I’m doing this with full knowledge of the consequences, that I’m forfeiting my inheritance. That she may never speak to me again. But shit, she already despises me, so what do I have to lose, right?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t despise you, Dell,” Quentin begins.
Dell snorts. “Don’t bullshit me, Quentin.”
Quentin takes the contract from me when I finish signing it, looks it over. “All seems to be in order. Mr. Bristow, there’s just the matter of payment?”
It had taken me almost a month to shift and liquidate enough assets to afford this. In that time, I’d attended Mr. McKenna’s funeral; I’d stayed in the back, well away from Delia and the family, as well as my own family. I doubt they even knew I was there, honestly.
I’d already set up the wire transfer, so it was a matter of completing it via my bank’s app. With the wire transfer complete, I return my phone to my suit coat’s inner pocket; not sure why, but I felt compelled to wear a suit to this.
“Done,” I say.
Dell sighs, fiddling with a corner of the top piece of paper of the contract. “Thank fucking god that’s done.”
I eye him. “There’s still time to undo it.”
“Hell no,” he says with a laugh. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been, all things considered.” He claps me on the shoulder as he stands up. “If she pitches a fit, tell her the truth: it was my idea and I bullied you into it.”
I cackle. “Yeah, you really bullied me. I’m still traumatized.”
He shoves a hand in the hip pocket of his jeans. “Well, Thai…you’re a fifty percent owner of McKenna Construction. How do you feel?”
I blow out a breath as I wipe my hand down my face. “Honestly? A little scared your sister might actually physically assault me when I show up for the next meeting.” I glance at my watch, in a bizarrely idiotic gesture, considering my next question: “Speaking of which, when are the meetings, Dell?”
He splutters a laugh. “Like I know? I’ve never been to one.”
Quentin sighs; he hands the completed contract to an assistant. “Wednesdays at one thirty,” he murmurs. “At the headquarters in town.”
I jolt to my feet. “Well shit, man, why didn’t you say so sooner? It’s one-twenty and it’s Wednesday.”
Quentin frowns. “You plan on attending the meetings, Mr. Bristow?”
“Of course. I plan on assuming all the roles and duties associated with my ownership stake.”
His frown deepens. “I thought, to be perfectly honest, that this was all some…jape, on your parts.”
I nod. “I understand your position, Quentin, considering my reputation in this town. I’m not that person anymore. Or, at least, I’m trying not to be.”
He leans back and steeples his fingertips in front of himself. “You have your work cut out for you, then, I must admit. You face a very steep uphill battle, where Miss McKenna is concerned.”
The assistant returns with a pair of copies of the contract—one for me, and one for Dell. I hold mine in my hands, while Dell rolls his up into a tight tube and shoves it in the back pocket of his jeans.
I button the middle button of my jacket. “I am well aware of that, I assure you.”
Quentin’s smile is faint. “Oh, you may think you do. But somehow…I doubt you are capable of fully grasping the position you’re placing yourself in. Delia McKenna is the most singularly fierce and determined individual I have ever met, bar none.” His eyebrow arches. “You’re walking into the lion’s den, Mr. Bristow.”
Chapter Six
Delia
I always try to be early for our Wednesday meetings.
They used to be board meetings, since Boyd and some of the others owned shares of the company, but now that Dell and I split ownership, it’s not a board meeting anymore, just a…weekly state of affairs meeting of the top staff of McKenna construction.
I look at the chair at the head of the long table. Dad’s place; this is the first full board meeting since he passed.
My first time in his place. Because even though Dell is technically co-CEO or whatever, this is my company. I doubt he’ll even show, anyway, so no way he gets the head seat. Or the seat at the other end. I make a mental note to put Boyd there, in case Dell does decide to show up.
Sure enough, Boyd, Ned, Sheila, and Constance all file in at the same time; no Dell.
When everyone has coffee and is seated—with Boyd opposite me—I catch everyone’s eyes in turn, and the room quiets.
“Well, everyone, here we are.” I try to smile, but can’t quite manage it. “Dell is technically supposed to be here, but I doubt any of us will be surprised if he’s a no-show.” There’s a murmur of agreement. “I’m not Dad, but I promise you all, I’ll do my best to make him proud, to do this job as well as he did it.”
“You’ll do great,” Boyd says. “We all have complete faith in you.”
“Thanks, Boyd.” I sigh, viciously shoving down the well of emotions that boils inside me. “Part of me is tempted to ask for a moment of silence for Dad, but I hear him grumbling about wasting time on nonsense, so…with no further ado, let’s get down to business.”
In my head, I hear the rest of the line from Mulan: to defeat…the HUNS…
I don’t snicker or even smile, because if anyone at this table knew I was singing Disney lyrics in my head, they’d quickly lose all that faith in me.
“So. We’re cranking along at Oak Glen. The only hiccup that I know of is an unexpected delay in getting our plumbing subs on-site for the new installs. I still don’t have an explanation, but the latest word end of last week is that they’ll still get it all done by deadline.” I glance down at my own notes of things to cover. “Boyd—where are we with the Karsten account?”
Boyd opens his mouth to answer, but something over my shoulder catches his attention, and his jaw shuts with an abrupt click of his teeth, my eyes widening. My back is to the door, where Boyd’s gaze is fixed.
At first, I assume the sudden change in attitude in Boyd means it’s Dell.
“Nice of you to show up, Dell,” I say, without turning around. I point to a seat at the other side of the table, well away from me, next to Constance. “You can sit there. We were just getting a report from—”
“Actually, there’s been a bit of a change in plans, Delia.” The voice is not Dell’s. It’s deeper, smoother, darker. It’s familiar, and it makes my entire body clench, my teeth grind, my heart squeeze, my mind go blank.
I slowly turn in my chair, working furiously to keep my face neutral. It can’t be. Can’t be. Can’t be.
It is.
Matthais Bristow.
In the flesh.
And…holy hell.
I haven’t seen him since high school graduation, and he is…well…all grown up. And then some.
Over six feet tall, by a couple inches at least. Broad, hard, round shoulders. His hair is the perfect dirty blond of a surfer, sun-bleached and sun-kissed. A little too long, a little messy, as if he’s been running his hands through it…or someone has. Even wearing a bespoke indigo suit, his body stuns. Trim, hard. His arms stretch the sleeves. His chest pushes against the crisp white shirt. It’s perfectly pressed, fits him like he was sewn into it, and he wears it like he was born in one.
Those fucking eyes.
Gray-green. Devilish. Cunning and wicked and intelligent. Full of mirth and humor and mischief. And…if I’m not mistaken, possibly even nerves.
He has one hand in his hip pocket, the other clutching a sheaf of paper. No tie, top button undone, sunglasses tucked into the V.
Adult Matthais Bristow is sex on a stick.
Evil personified, but still, I give credit where credit is due—he’s fucking breathtaking.
It only serves to ma
ke me even angrier.
Striving for that icy calm which anyone who knows me knows is a thin cover over my volcanic temper, I lean back in my chair, spin a pen around my middle finger. Stare him down without speaking for a long, tense thirty seconds. “What are you doing here, Matthais? This is a private business meeting.”
He withdraws his hand from his pocket, goes to the coffee station and pours himself a cup of coffee, leaving it black. The coffee station is on the opposite side of the table as the only open chair, so he has to go back around behind me. On his way past me, he drops in front of me the sheaf of paper he’d been carrying, and then takes the open seat. Leans back casually, sipping his coffee, waiting.
I scan it—it’s a contract.
A sale.
Of Dell’s stake in McKenna Construction…
To Matthais Bristow.
“No.” I toss it back at him. “Whatever game you’re playing, Matty, I’m not interested. Go away. I’m busy with adult stuff.”
He doesn’t visibly react. “I go by Thai, now, actually. And it’s not a game.”
I shake my head. “No. I refuse to countenance this…this…tomfoolery.”
Fuck—I just said tomfoolery. What am I, ninety?
Matthais can’t contain his smirk. “No tomfoolery, Delia. Just plain business. Dell sold to me. It’s legal, legit, and real. Look at the contract—Quentin Albright Quince wrote the contract and notarized it.”
I shake my head. Flip through the contract. I’m no lawyer, but I know my way around contracts. This is legit. The real thing. I’ll have to have…well, normally I’d have Quentin do it, but since he wrote the contract, I’ll have to have someone else look it over for loopholes.
I toss the contract on the table with a huff. Turn my gaze—glare, really—on Matthais. “What do you want?”
He shrugs. “For now, I’ll just listen and learn.”
“No…I mean what do you want to go away? How much will it cost me to get you out of this office and back out of my life?”
He sips his coffee, eyes narrowed, and I can see the wheels turning. “Well, see, the thing is, Delia, I just spent a whole hell of a lot of money buying out your brother. So…I think I’ll see this one through.”
I ignore the stares of the rest of the staff, focus on Matthais. “See this one through. What does that even mean? Why would you buy my brother’s shares? You’re even more of a useless fuckboy tool than he is. This is a real company, doing real business. I doubt you could pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel.”
He remains obnoxiously unflustered. “I realize I’ve earned every ounce of vitriol you have for me, Delia, and then some. But as for my qualifications…check your email. I sent you my CV.”
“You have a CV?” I snorted. “Doing lines off of strippers doesn’t count, Matthais.”
His eyes narrow. “Does an economics degree from Yale count? How about an internship at Goldman Sachs? Or maybe an MBA from Wharton School of Business?”
As he’s speaking, I bring up the email on my phone. I force myself to hold a neutral expression as I read, and realize he’s not bluffing. His CV is, legitimately and honestly, impressive.
And he’s not done.
“Or how about sixteen million in investments across six different industries—does that count? Perhaps the fact that I purchased Dell’s entire fifty percent stake in this company with cash? I got into Yale on my own merit. I earned my degrees myself, the hard way. I got the internship myself, by competing for it. And turned down an offer of full-time employment from them, just FYI, because that shit was fucking boring as hell.” He leans forward, hands flat on the table, gaze fierce, eyes like green fire. “Like it or not, Delia, I’m qualified.”
“This isn’t Goldman Sachs, Matthais. We’re a construction company. We build houses. Do you even know which end of a hammer to hold?”
His lips tighten. “Whatever I don’t know, I can learn.”
“I know you’re not actually stupid, granted…you’re just a colossal asshole. But the greater point here, is…why? Why would you do this?” I struggle to stay calm, when what I want is to kick and scream…and cry.
But I swore, over a decade ago, that I’d never waste another tear on Matthais Bristow.
The room is silent. Matthais doesn’t answer right away, and I can tell he’s legitimately considering the answer.
“Honestly, Delia, that’s a very good question. And I’m not entirely certain of the answer. It was Dell’s idea. I do mean that, and not as a cop-out for not answering. I know why Dell sold, and that’s a conversation you’ll have to have with him—I won’t speak for him. Why did I agree? Why did I actually go through with it? I don’t know. It’s complicated, I think. And honestly, I think the longer and more detailed answer to the question you’re really asking, Delia, is personal. For you, and for me. Which means a board meeting probably isn’t the right time or place to have that discussion.”
I’m taken aback by the sincerity in him.
Can he actually be this changed? I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him.
“Matthais—”
“Please—call me Thai.”
“Fine. Thai, whatever.” I sigh, a long, annoyed, conflicted sound. “I’m not convinced this isn’t another one of your cruel jokes. If it is, it’s the cruelest one yet, Thai. This is my life. My career. I’ve worked every single day since I was a little girl for the right and the privilege to sit in this chair. I’d still give it back if it meant getting Daddy back.” I pin him with the hardest, iciest, most penetrating glare I can summon. Let my full hatred for him seethe out of me. “I will not let the likes of you ruin this for me, Thai. I won’t. You spent money on this, and a lot of it. I know how much Dell’s half was worth down to the last penny. Even for you, this is a big gamble. Which for anyone else would mean they’re serious. But I don’t trust you, and I like you even less. But…this is legal, and it’s binding.” I tap the contract. “I’m going to have it examined to see if there’s a way out of it, but I have to assume Quentin did his job as he’s always done it—thoroughly. So you’re here. I hate it more than I can say. But—all I ask is that you behave with something like adult decorum, if not with respect for the fact that we’re running a business. And Thai? Don’t get in my way.”
Matthais…Thai—he doesn’t answer. Just nods. And there’s no humor in his gaze. No mischief. That taunting sneer he had so perfected is nowhere to be seen.
Somehow, the name he’s chosen, Thai…it fits him. Which is every bit as annoying as his overall godlike hotness.
I stand up, collect my things. “Apologies, everyone, but it seems I have to have a conversation with my brother. Carry on without me, and if anything important comes up, you know how to get ahold me.” I glance at Thai. “Except you. Don’t call me. Ever.”
With that, I leave, and head out in search of my brother.
I find him at the local airfield, in a private lounge, waiting for a charter to finish being prepared. He’s sipping champagne from the bottle, wearing mirrored aviators. Joggers, slide sandals, plain T-shirt, all white. Jet-black hair swept back. Scrolling on his phone.
He looks up as I enter. He flinches, and then covers it with a swig of champagne. “Dee-Dee. What’s up?”
I yank the bottle away from him and slam it down on a nearby table, so hard it foams up and spills down the side. I curl my fists in his shirt and yank him halfway up out of his chair—I’m a strong girl. “What—the—fuck, Dell? Of all the dirty, filthy, slimy, underhanded bullshit you could possibly pull, you sell out to Matthais fucking Bristow?”
He jerks away, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt. Settles his aviators more firmly on his face. “It was a strategic move, believe it or not.”
“You wouldn’t know a strategic move if your life depended on it.”
He reaches past me and grabs the bottle. Dabs the sides and bottom dry with a handful of cocktail napkins. “Think what you want, sis. I’m not arguing wi
th you.”
“No, you’re running away.”
“Sure am.”
“Coward.”
He shoves the sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes are…angry. Conflicted. Hurt. But mostly angry. “You know what, Delia? Fuck you. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, where you’re concerned. Let’s say I’d gone along with Dad’s bullshit little ploy—stuck around, played at businessman with you and Boyd and the others. If I had tried, you’d have bitten my head off at every turn. Given me the worst jobs. Ignored me. Shit all over me, no matter what I did. Just like always. Nothing I did would have been acceptable, or good enough. Never has been. Never will be.” He stabs a finger at me, poking my chest just below my throat. “I stopped fucking around with you years ago, and so did Thai. Yet still, you shit on me every chance you get. The shit you say to me is fucking vicious, Delia. Why would I want to stick around for more of your verbal punishment? Huh? Ask yourself that. If I’m doomed to fail, why should I bother even trying? It’s not like you’d let me do anything that matters, not with your precious company. You care more about McKenna Construction than you do me. Or just about anything, for that matter.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s not done.
“I know, I know—Thai and I were assholes, back in the day. I get it. I should have stopped him from doing a lot of the shit he pulled on you. I’m sorry, Delia. I really am. But that was years ago.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not really the point, here, though. I sold to him because I—don’t—want that fucking company. I don’t want to build houses. I don’t want to play good little soldier to your Generalissima bullshit. I don’t want to slave away in the marketing department. I don’t want to do any of it. I don’t know what I do want, but it’s not that. And this isn’t laziness. I don’t care if you agree or believe me or not—I’m doing this because I refuse to be railroaded into a career I don’t want.” He goes quiet, voice so soft I have to strain to hear him. “I have a lot of regrets in my life, Dee. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I let—let Dad down.” He tugs his glasses back down onto his face, but not before I see the gleam of tears in his eyes; he clears his throat, lets out a gruff sigh. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I just…I could never measure up. Not to you. Not to Dad’s expectations of me. And certainly not to the way Dad looked at you, approved of you. So why try? That was always my…my thing. Why bother? It won’t make a difference. Well…I’m going to do something that will make a difference. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure it out—my way. You get my share of the inheritance, I’m not fighting that. I’m not asking you for anything…and I never will.” He checks his watch. “My plane is ready—I have to go. And as for Thai? That was my way of…keeping it in the family.”
The Parent Trap Page 5
