Everything I Hoped For

by Ann Christopher

  Anthony’s lips started to smile, but only made it halfway. They didn’t quite remember how. Not in his father’s presence. “Anything I can do?”

  “Yeah.” Tony leaned in, all neutrality slipping away from his expression. “You can come back home to Houston with me.”

  Well, there it was: Tony’s hidden agenda. It never took too long to raise its ugly head, yet it was always a nasty surprise when it showed up.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of chicken soup or a new pair of pajamas and slippers. Maybe a visit at the holidays,” Anthony said.

  “You could see about dipping your toe in the business. Or get started on another career.”

  “I have a career,” Anthony said flatly.

  “No, you don’t.” The old man’s upper lip peeled back in the beginning of a sneer. “You have your grandmother’s charity work. Not the same thing at all.”

  Anthony had no intentions of opening up that Pandora’s box tonight or any other night. Not with his father. And if there was a nasty twinge of truth to his father’s words, Anthony would put it aside for now. There was no point getting into it. He’d made his choices long ago.

  “I’m not discussing my work or my grandmother with you.”

  Frustrated sigh from Tony followed by a beseeching wheedle.

  “I’m getting old, now, son. You’re the only kid I got. Family means something.”

  Anthony glared the man down, appalled both by his father’s never-ending hypocrisy and his own ongoing animosity toward this man. It would take a hell of a lot more than an alleged diagnosis of a serious illness to mend these bridges.

  “Family means something to you? Since when? Not when you cheated your way through your marriage with my mother or made her life miserable during the divorce or didn’t show up to her funeral, surely. And probably not when you haven’t been bothered with me since, except for random appearances, phone calls and the occasional threat to cut off the income from the trust fund that my mother left for me.”

  The words hung in the air, ringing with enough truth that Tony actually had the decency to look ashamed.

  “Fair enough.” Tony bowed his head. “How about this: family should mean something. Will that work?”

  Anthony worked hard to loosen his clenched jaw. “Agreed.”

  Tony moodily stared into his glass. “And your mother made me your trustee. To do with your money as I see fit for the term of the trust. Thanks to me and my investments, you’ll be knocking on the door of a billion dollars when you get control next year when you turn thirty-five.”

  “Yes, well, I appreciate your diligence, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit anxious to be out from under your financial thumb.”

  “You wouldn’t have been under my thumb if you had a career. Which I’ve been telling you for years. Don’t you want something of your own that you can be proud of?”

  “You’re a broken fucking record.”

  They glared at each other. In those toxic few seconds, it probably wouldn’t have taken much for either of them to lunge across the table and throttle the other.

  The server reappeared with their drinks, and not a moment too soon. Anthony downed half of his in one sinus-burning gulp, but Tony picked his up and swirled it.

  By then, Anthony was feeling no pain and no mercy.

  “Come on, now,” he said, reaching across the table to thump his father on the shoulder. “You’re not going to let your lame-ass son drink you under the table, are you?”

  Tony sadly shook his head. “I can’t drink like I used to. Doesn’t set right with my belly.”

  “There’s a tragedy,” Anthony muttered.

  Tony put his glass down and nailed Anthony with the piercing gaze that had shone disapproval down on him all his life. “Will you think about it? Will you come home?”

  “Try to pay attention. Houston’s not my home.”

  “It was after your mother died.” A muscle pulsed in Tony’s forehead. “For about ten minutes.”

  “Yes, and that was more than long enough for us to nearly kill each other, which was why I took myself off to boarding school. And I’m not an oilman like you.”

  “Nope,” Tony said bitterly. “You’re nothing like me.”

  “There it is at last.” Anthony downed the rest of his drink. “Something we can agree on.”

  “Doesn’t it matter to you, son? That I might be dying?”

  Anthony spoke without thinking. “You’re far too hateful to die.”

  Tony stared him down until Anthony’s gaze wavered and fell.

  He considered his father and thought of all the hard feelings and years wasted. All the slights, perceived and real. The occasional laughter—the time they spent a mud-splattered day together racing around the ranch in their all-terrain vehicles came to mind—quickly followed by endless silences and phones that never rang.

  And now his father had heart issues.

  “Of course it matters to me,” Anthony said, his voice husky.

  Tony leaned forward. “You’re gonna let me do that alone?”

  Anthony couldn’t meet his father’s gaze, so he eyed his empty glass and came up with a deflection.

  “Where are all your teenaged ex-wives and playthings?”

  Tony barked out a laugh. “You think one of them is gonna stick around for some sick old man?”

  Anthony shrugged, every atom inside his body determined to never show this man his vulnerable underbelly lest Tony rip it out like a lioness with a zebra kill.

  “That seems like the kind of thing you might have thought about twenty years ago, when you were a middle-aged man trying to fuck every co-ed in the University of Texas school system,” Anthony said. “So I guess this is a case of reaping what you’ve sown?”

  Tony’s face twisted into a snarl of bared teeth, lowered brows and flashing eyes.

  “This is about your grandmother, isn’t it? You open your mouth and her words come out! She’s brainwashed you! She clicks her bony old fingers, and you can’t go running fast enough! Why don’t you try being your own man for once?”

  The hypocrisy remained thick as shit in a cow pasture through here. Too bad Anthony hadn’t brought his Wellies with him.

  “I’ve always been my own man,” he said, his voice shaking with a lifetime’s worth of repressed anger as he pointed a finger in his father’s face. “That’s why you could never stand the sight of my face.”

  Tired smile from the old guy, who raised his drink again.

  “I can’t stand the sight of your face because you look just like your mother.”

  Anthony froze. What? What did he just say?

  Tony toasted him and downed his entire drink in a rough gulp, generating a hacking fit.

  “Jesus.” Anthony watched helplessly for a moment, then signaled for the server. “Can we get some water over here, please?”

  “I don’t need any water!” Tony coughed again, then cleared his hoarse throat. “I need my son!”

  Anthony grimaced and stared the old man in the face, noting the deep under-eye circles. The craggy lines that now stayed one step ahead of the Botox treatments. The veiled fear and despair in those familiar eyes.

  And he felt…numb.

  He couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse than the usual blind rage.

  “I don’t think I can help you,” he said. “I’m being honest.”

  Tony’s face fell.

  Anthony’s phone buzzed just then. Grateful for the distraction, he snatched it up to discover another text from Melody:

  I was at a stoplight! Home now. Sleep tight.

  She ended with a kiss-blowing emoji that made him unreasonably happy, especially after the turmoil of the last several minutes. He started to grin but caught himself, mindful of his father’s unhappiness and rapt attention.

  Sure enough.

  When Anthony raised his head again, those watchful eyes were everywhere, seeing everything all the way down to the dark and hidden corners
of Anthony’s heart. He looked hopeful for Anthony. Excited. Possibly even proud.

  That, in a nutshell, was the most insidious thing about spending time—any time at all—with Tony. Sometimes he acted like the kind of father a bloke might want to have around. And he was a good enough actor to really fuck with Anthony’s head.

  “She special to you? Miss Melody?”

  Just like that, the bubble of warm feelings that Anthony had accidentally and temporarily felt for his father popped like a balloon meeting a razor blade. Anthony thought back to the girlfriends he’d had over the years, most of whom Tony had charmed, some of whom he’d actively tried to seduce and one of whom he’d actually fucked back when Anthony was in college. An event that had come to light when Anthony foolishly ran out to pick up pizza, then returned to his dorm room a bit sooner than the lovebirds had probably expected.

  He barked out a laugh. “You don’t actually expect me to discuss Melody with you?”

  “Fair enough,” Tony said sadly. “How about a word of advice?”

  Annoyed at being cast in the bad guy role tonight, Anthony impatiently twitched his shoulders.

  “You care about that girl? You hang on to her.” Tony pointed at Anthony’s face. “Don’t you let your grandmother, me, Miss Melody’s kin or anyone else keep you from her. You got me?”

  Against all odds, the numbness inside Anthony gave way to a twinge of affection for the old guy.

  “Looks like there are two things we agree on tonight,” he told his father.

  9

  6:38 p.m. Sunday

  Anthony: Saved any youthful lives today?

  Melody: Let’s hope so. 5 y.o. with significant liver lacerations following car accident. Emergency appendectomy. Rounds. Paperwork. Another day in paradise. ;) You?

  Anthony: Can’t answer. Too exhausted reading about YOUR day. When do you sleep?

  Melody: Sleep? What is this concept?

  Anthony: I was going to complain about Nick standing me up for breakfast in favor of the redhead, but am now rethinking…

  Melody: LOL! So what did you do all day? How do you like Journey’s End?

  Anthony: Wonderful town. I kayaked. By myself. Nick skived off because he was “low on fluids.” I’ll leave that to your imagination. Baptiste is with Samira. Says she’s better today.

  Melody: Yeah. Talked to her. You should try Pub 221B for dinner. Fish and chips. Let me know if they’re authentic.

  Anthony: Will do. We still on for quick breakfast at hospital in morning?

  Melody: Yep. Meet me in the atrium at 9:30.

  Anthony: Looking forward to it.

  Melody: You might want to reconsider. I plan to grill you about your career and city of residence.

  Anthony: Still looking forward to it. And to hello kiss.

  Melody: G-rated only in the workplace, pls.

  Anthony: Alas!

  10:16 p.m. Sunday

  Anthony: Fish and chips NOT authentic. At home, skin remains on the fish.

  Melody: What? That’s disgusting!

  Anthony: Not at all. You’ll see when you come to London to visit me.

  Melody: ?

  Anthony: Sorry? I was under impression English is your first language?

  Melody: We just met! Now you’re planning trips?

  Anthony: Too soon? Save trip planning for tomorrow or day after?

  Melody: W-O-W

  Anthony: Your noncommittal answer is duly noted. Demerits given. You will receive stern talking to tomorrow morning.

  Melody: So you’re still coming?

  Anthony: Did you think I wouldn’t?

  Melody: You might ghost me.

  Anthony: Ghosting you is the last thing on my mind. Did you think about me today? Sorry. Wine from dinner is making me needy. So did you?

  Melody: I’m a busy surgeon and a consummate professional! I was working all day!

  Anthony: Did you think about me today?

  Melody: I thought about you ALL day. Curse you and your clever questioning! Did you train with 007?

  Anthony: I cannot reveal that information. Will they let you sleep tonight?

  Melody: Hopefully. Speaking of—time for me to grab some ZZZZs.

  Anthony: I’ll let you go. Try to think of me when you get into bed. Because I’ll be thinking of you.

  Melody: No “darling”?

  Anthony: Try to think of me tonight, Darling.

  Melody: XO

  When Melody hurried around the corner and into the soaring and sunny hospital atrium the following morning, she had no problem locating Anthony. He was the one holding a shopping bag and a drink carrier and sandwiched between two smiling and pretty med techs—she thought they were from radiology—who stared up at him with red hearts where their eyes had been.

  Not that she could blame them.

  She checked him out as she came closer, her heartbeat lapsing into a wonky pattern that made her glad she was in a hospital and therefore easily resuscitated when she keeled over in a dead faint.

  He’d traded in his tux for a pair of faded jeans that showcased his long legs and stellar ass to perfection. Weathered brown leather bomber jacket. Sweater. Scarf. A ridiculously sexy five o’clock shadow.

  All she could do was glance sorrowfully down at her blue scrubs and lab coat, smooth her ponytail and thank God that she had clear skin—the unscarred part, anyway—and time to swipe on a little lip gloss before she came down.

  They didn’t have scarred faces, she noted, eyeballing her would-be competition with a sinking heart. They looked fresh and clean and weren’t wrapping up a ridiculous no-sleep shift that created a whole set of Louis Vuitton luggage under your eyes. A man like Anthony rightfully belonged with a woman like one of them.

  Her steps slowed.

  She reached for her ponytail again, longing to pull the elastic out and fluff her hair around her face and neck so she could at least approximate someone who didn’t make small children stare. As a person who worked with many small children, she periodically had to question her masochistic tendencies.

  On the other hand, she’d never been a coward and she wasn’t going to start now. And the best way to get Anthony to reveal his true colors—and true intentions—might well be to force him to confront her scar head-on, with no filters and no rosy glow from good lighting and a few drinks.

  She squared her shoulders the way a confident woman would do and completed her approach.

  “Thanks so much, but I’m…” Anthony saw Melody and brightened, his breath hitching audibly as his avid gaze swept her up and down. To his credit, he seemed much more interested in her eyes than her scar. “Here she is now,” he told the med techs. He spared them a quick glance, then returned his attention to Melody. “Appreciate the help, though.”

  The women looked crestfallen. Honestly, if they tried to make a living playing poker, they’d be homeless and destitute by the end of the first round. They didn’t do much better when it came to checking Melody out. In a standard reaction, they saw the scar, recoiled slightly, caught themselves doing it, then recovered and overcompensated with smiles that were a bit too broad and overenthusiastic. This time, there was added puzzlement in their expressions, a distinct what’s he doing with her? vibe that plunged an ice pick straight through the center of Melody’s fragile ego.

  They can’t hurt you, Mel, she reminded herself, employing the mantra that had gotten her through a thousand of these awkward encounters in her life. Nothing can hurt you unless you let it.

  Unfortunately, her mouth wasn’t listening.

  “Just a kitchen accident when I was a kid,” she told the women in a prickly knee-jerk reaction before she could stop herself. “No need to stare.”

  By this time, they’d caught sight of her name badge and all but died of embarrassment.

  “Sorry, Dr. Harrison.”

  “We didn’t mean to—”

  “No worries,” Melody said, now fighting her own embarrassment. Why did she always have to spout off at t
he mouth? Why couldn’t she trot out her best behavior for ten seconds in front of Anthony? She managed a quick smile. “Have a great day.”

  “You too,” they said, leaping on the opportunity to put their heads together as they hurried off, probably whispering about the scarred doctor whose sanity was questionable at best.

  And leaving Melody alone to face a now unsmiling Anthony.

  “You get that a lot?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s okay.” She attempted her most offhand shrug. The last thing she wanted was for this man to feel sorry for her. “I’m used to it.”

  “Not sure you could be,” he muttered, frowning as he stared after them.

  “Eh. I’d be a fool if I let staring people ruin my day. Don’t you agree?”

  His head came back around. His expression was so full of surprise and admiration that there was no room for pity.

  Her breath caught. She hid it as best she could, but she couldn’t help but stare. Just a little.

  The glorious morning light hit him just right. His eyes were bluer than she’d thought, his gold-streaked hair blonder. And she absolutely could not think when he looked at her like that, with such unwavering and relentless focus you’d think she’d shown up with a potion for orgasms on demand in her pocket.

  “So…good morning,” she said, trying to smile. Which wasn’t easy when a blush roared up her neck and set her face on fire.

  “Good morning.” After a beat or two, he blinked some of that intensity into submission. His voice softened when he spoke to her, she noticed. “It’s really great to see you.”

  “You too,” she admitted, feeling her expression morph into the same sort of unfortunate simper the med techs had just exhibited.

  He hesitated, then leaned in to press a lingering kiss on her scarred cheek, right by her ear.

  Just dove right in and kissed her thickened skin in the cold light of day.

  She froze, stunned.

  Clearing his throat, he slowly pulled back.

  She, meanwhile, resisted the urge to touch the spot, which now tingled, and awarded him a million points for finesse. Was the kiss only a clever maneuver designed to get him laid sooner rather than later? Possibly. That didn’t stop her heart from thumping or a delicious shiver from racing over her flesh.