by Ana Huang
“One night out of how many? A dozen?” Blake sneered. “I’ve invited you to every opening, and this is the first one you’ve ever attended. You didn’t even show up for the Austin celebration, and that was right in your goddamned city, so excuse me if I’m not falling all over myself because you’re here.”
His ugliness boiled to the surface, grateful for a target to take itself out on.
Hell, Blake’s personal life was already in shambles. He might as well continue the trend and take a match to his already-frayed relationship with his father.
Watch everything burn and get all the agony out of the way in one fell swoop.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Joe stood and loosened his tie with sharp, angry jerks. “I don’t care what your mother says.”
A glint on his wrist caught Blake’s eye. “What is that?”
His father glowered at him. “What’s what?”
Blake jutted his chin toward the item that had captured his attention. He’d asked a silly question because he knew what it was. It was a gold Patek Philippe timepiece with a brown alligator strap and the number 50 custom-engraved on the back of its case.
Blake knew because he’d bought it for his father’s fiftieth birthday.
Discomfort filled Joe’s face. “It’s a watch.”
“It’s the watch I gave you for your fiftieth. You’re wearing it.”
“Of course I’m wearing it,” Joe snapped. “It’s a watch. What else am I supposed to do, eat it?”
“You’ve never used any of the presents I’ve gotten you in the past.”
The golf clubs Blake had bought for Joe’s forty-eighth birthday, collecting dust.
The rare whiskey he’d bought for his forty-sixth birthday, unopened.
The birthday cards he drew when he’d been too young to buy presents, tossed.
“How would you know? You don’t come home often enough to know what the hell I use.”
Blake’s nostrils flared. “Don’t try to guilt-trip me. That bottle of whiskey was still unopened last time I checked, and I was home two months ago. Four years after I gifted it to you.”
“It’s a nice whiskey. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”
“The golf clubs?”
“I used them until Rick moved away. He’s the only one of my friends who played.” Joe scowled. “Why the hell are we talking about this?”
“Because.” Blake curled his thumbs around the edge of his desk. The smooth oak seared into his skin until he was sure you could see the wood grains etched across his fingers if he released them. “Nothing I give or do is good enough for you.”
Shock glittered in Joe’s eyes. He stopped fussing with his tie and collapsed into his seat again. “Is that what you think? That you’re not good enough?”
“You’ve never given me any indication otherwise,” Blake said bitterly. “The only thing I’m good at is football, remember?”
His father’s reaction when he’d told him he wanted to start a sports bar all those years ago had burned itself into its memories.
You know nothing about running a business. A sports bar? C’mon. There are a million sports bars out there. Take it from someone who’s been around a lot longer than you have, son: stick to what you’re good at. You’re good at football. That’s it.
Joe grimaced.
“I guess only being an NFL superstar is good enough for you. All this—” Blake swept his arm around his large office. “Doesn’t mean shit. You will always hate me for not living out the dreams you couldn’t live yourself.”
Joe had played college ball too, until a torn ACL forced him to quit before he could go pro. He’d turned to fitness coaching as a consolation career, but from the moment Blake threw his first perfect spiral at age seven, he’d piled expectation upon expectation on his son until Blake buckled beneath the weight. Joe relived his glory through Blake until it came time for the thing he wanted most: the NFL. Blake quit before the draft and squashed his father’s dreams of a pro football career by proxy.
“I don’t hate you,” Joe bit out. “You’re my son.”
“Only by blood.” Blake flashed a sardonic smile. “You could barely stand to look at me. Not even on your fiftieth birthday.”
“It’s because I’m ashamed, okay?” Joe exploded. “That’s why I can’t look you in the eye!”
Had Blake not been sitting, he would’ve tumbled to the floor. Shock swelled in his throat, cutting off his air supply.
Joe’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I’ll admit, I was pissed when you quit football. You were a unique talent, Blake. One in a million. I thought you were throwing your future away for a pipe dream. I didn’t hate you for it; I was worried about you. Figured you needed some tough love to help you pull your head out of your ass before you were stuck, miserable, and in debt.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Luckily, you proved me wrong. But when you invited me to the opening…” He tapped his fingers on his thigh, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “It seemed wrong to celebrate and act the role of proud father when I had been such a…well, less than stellar one. I’d tried to hold you back every step of the way, and you succeeded despite me, not because of me. I didn’t want to leech off your success—not when I had nothing to do with it. So, I stayed away. It’s not because I hate you. You’re my son. I could never hate you.”
Blake couldn’t have been more stunned had Joe ripped off his face to reveal one of those squid-like alien heads from Independence Day. Every interaction he’d had with his father over the past five years—and there hadn’t been many—flashed through his mind. Part of him resisted Joe’s explanation. It was easy to resent Joe because that was all Blake knew. They hadn’t had a “normal” father-son relationship since Blake thought girls carried cooties.
Yet Blake could tell by the look in his father’s eyes that he was telling the truth. He also knew how much it must’ve cost him to utter those words out loud. Joe Ryan was a proud man, and he didn’t admit to his faults often, if ever. His logic may be twisted and fucked up, but it made sense—to him.
“Then why are you here now? What changed?” Blake eyed the bottle of scotch on his shelf longingly. He could use a stiff drink, if only so he didn’t pass out from shock. There were few things as disorienting as having what you’d always considered a truth be flipped upside down.
First Cleo, now my dad. That’s twice in one month. I’m setting a damned record.
Joe scratched his chin with an awkward frown. “I thought about what you said at my party. About me being a shitty father.”
Guilt twisted in Blake’s gut. “I didn’t mean to blow up on you on your birthday.”
“Seemed like it was a long time coming,” Joe said dryly. “Ya know, I honestly didn’t think it would bother you that I told Pete to host the kickoff at his house instead of Legends. It’s what we’ve always done. But I guess I’m not the best at sussing that sort of stuff out.” Another scratch of his chin. “I admit I haven’t been…the best father over the years. I wanted to skip New York, too, ya know. Wanted to keep avoiding the issue. But your mother and sister blew up at me. They took your side.”
His mom went against his dad? The shockers kept coming.
“Anyway.” The discomfort returned to Joe’s face. “I figured it was time I stopped running and had a talk with you. Man to man. And I know this is the biggest opening you’ve had so far. You did a good job,” he added gruffly. “A really good job. I’m proud of you.”
I’m proud of you.
Blake had waited his whole life to hear those words come out of his father’s mouth. Now that they had, his brain nearly exploded trying to comprehend them. Joe might as well be reciting Ulysses in Latin.
A strange warmth dripped from Blake’s heart to his stomach, where it pooled into a puddle of pride and disbelief.
“It wasn’t all me.” Blake cleared his throat. “My team did a fantastic job.”
While he oversaw the strategy and vision, his
team members were the ones who’d turned his vision into reality. They were the bedrock of Legends, and Blake treated them as such. He’d be nowhere without his team.
“That they did. Well, good talk. I’m going to head downstairs.” Joe stood. He’d clearly reached his bonding limit for the night. “Lord knows your mother and sister get into all sorts of trouble when they’re around margaritas.”
Last Blake saw, Helen and Joy had been busy gawking at Zane, a famous male model and LNY’s celebrity bartender of the night.
“Wait.”
His father froze.
Blake licked his lips. “I got a new bottle of scotch yesterday.” He tilted his head toward said bottle on the shelf. “Straight from Scotland. Want to try it with me?”
The olive branch stretched between them, taut with hesitation.
Joe’s eyes traveled between the scotch and Blake’s face. He settled into his chair again with a shadow of a smile. “I’d love to.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I can’t believe it’s midnight.” Farrah stifled a yawn. “At the risk of sounding like a grandma, the last time I stayed out this late was…”
With Blake.
She winced.
Farrah had done a damn good job of pushing Blake into the darkest corner of her mind, and she wasn’t going to unravel that progress now. Not when she was on a date with another man.
“I don’t remember,” she mumbled.
Paul’s eyes crinkled into a smile as he threaded his fingers through hers. “I’m honored you broke your late-night rule for me.”
“It’s not so much a rule as a coincidence,” Farrah decided. “I coincidentally fall asleep around ten every night.”
He laughed. “Regardless, I’m happy we stayed up. I had a great time.”
Paul’s sweetness killed her. They were on their third date. She’d met him on a dating app Olivia forced her to download to “get her mind off Blake,” and he seemed like the perfect man—handsome, kind, and smart, the type who would never break her heart. But as much as Farrah enjoyed hanging out with him, their chemistry was more tepid than a two-day-old cup of coffee. When they kissed, she felt nothing. No fireworks, no butterflies, no racing pulse.
“Do you want to grab something to eat?” Paul asked. “There’s a 24-hour diner around here that’s supposed to be good.”
Farrah’s exhaustion battled with her hunger.
Hunger won.
“Okay.” Nothing eased her worries like a good burger and milkshake.
As they ambled down the sidewalk, Farrah’s mind ran a mile a minute, trying to figure out her next move.
Should she break up with Paul or continue to wait, hoping she’d develop stronger feelings over time? They weren’t dating dating, per se, but they weren’t not dating either. She didn’t want to string him along and prevent him from meeting someone else who could give him the love and attention he deserved.
But Farrah’s selfish side feared what would happen if she let Paul go. It would open up a void in her life, and here was the thing about voids: they must be filled. Good, bad, it didn’t matter, as long as there was something there to appease it.
Farrah had a sinking feeling she knew what would fill that void post-Paul, and she wasn’t ready to face it. Not yet.
I’m a terrible person.
“Oh, wow.” Paul sounded awed. “Is that who I think it is?”
Farrah followed his gaze and saw the so-hot-it-should-be-illegal male model Zane stumbling into a taxi with a pixie-faced actress known for playing quirky, offbeat characters in indie movies. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
No, it was the name of the bar they were stumbling out of: Legends.
Blake’s bar.
She’d known Legends was near the venue where she and Paul caught a late-night standup comedy show, but the sight still threw her for a loop. The building might as well have Blake’s face stamped on it, smirking down at her.
Farrah tightened her grip on Paul’s hand. Tonight was Legends’ opening party. She’d read all about it in the latest issue of City Style, which ran a multi-page feature on Blake, his business, and his lifestyle as a handsome, successful bachelor in New York City.
She’d been ashamed to find herself leafing through Blake’s feature at night, after Olivia had gone to bed, her heart aching at the sight of his smile and confident, relaxed posture. At least, that was what most people saw. Farrah noticed the touch of tenseness in his shoulders and the fact that his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
For all his success, Blake was hurting.
It’s none of my business.
If Blake wanted to run and suffer alone, far be it from Farrah to stop him.
“C’mon, let’s go.” She tugged on Paul’s hand. “I’m starving.”
They made it five steps before a deep, familiar voice stopped them in their tracks. “Farrah.”
Her name drifted through the air, whispered with the reverence of one who had seen the ghost of a loved one.
Farrah was tempted to keep walking, but Paul gave her a gentle nudge. “I think he’s talking to you.”
Coincidence, you’re a bitch. You know that?
Farrah steeled herself and turned around. All the breath rushed out of lungs when saw Blake standing there, looking so earth-shatteringly gorgeous she wished she had paints and a canvas so she could immortalize him for all eternity.
Blake wore a pair of dark blue jeans, a tailored black blazer, and a crisp white dress shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and trim waist. His tousled blond hair shone beneath the lights like a halo, but his eyes were pure sin: pools of blue crystalline that entranced you, sucking you under their spell without you realizing until it was too late.
He was a god descended from the heavens, Apollo made flesh, and no matter how much time had passed, Farrah’s body reacted the same way it always did: whimpering, purring, straining, like a needy animal desperate to return to its owner.
Her mind, thankfully, shut it down before her knees turned to jelly and she collapsed on the sidewalk in a pool of lust and heartbreak.
“Hello.” Her cold, formal tone displayed zero emotion. Farrah silently congratulated herself on the feat. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“This is my bar,” Blake drawled. His gaze flicked to her and Paul’s entwined hands; a muscle ticked in his jaw. “You didn’t attend the opening party.”
He’d invited her months ago, before everything fell apart, along with Olivia and Sammy. Farrah didn’t go tonight, so Olivia didn’t either. Sammy took a quick trip to San Francisco to check up on his bakery there, according to Olivia, who shut down when Farrah asked her how she knew Sammy’s whereabouts.
“I had something else to do.” Farrah took perverse pleasure in the storm brewing in Blake’s eyes. They weren’t crystalline anymore; they were sapphire, dark and furious. Still beautiful, but blazing with a raw, hot jealousy that sent shivers of triumph down her spine.
The dark part of her—the petty, vindictive part—wanted to break him the way he broke her. She wanted him to see what he was missing and drown in regret.
“I had a date with Paul.” She inclined her head toward the man next to her, who looked mighty uncomfortable. Farrah didn’t blame him. The tension in the air was so thick you could snap it in half. “I don’t believe you’ve met. Paul, this is Blake, one of my old design clients. Blake, this is Paul, my boyfriend.”
Paul wasn’t her boyfriend—they’d only been on three dates—and she could feel him shift in surprise. He didn’t correct her, though, bless his heart.
Guilt swirled in her gut at using him like this, but she’d deal with that later. Right now, Farrah could only focus on the displeasure radiating from Blake in waves, both at her clinical description of their relationship—old design client—and the word “boyfriend.”
Like he had any right to be upset. He was the one who’d pushed her away without warning because she “deserved better.” Well, here she was, deserving
better.
Take that.
Yes, she was being childish. No, she didn’t care.
“Nice to meet you.” Paul released her hand to shake Blake’s with an affable smile. “Blake Ryan, right? I read about you the other day. Congrats on your bar.”
“Thank you.” Blake bared his teeth in a smile. He grabbed Paul’s hand so tight the other man flinched, but Blake kept his focus on Farrah.
“Guess who’s inside right now?” His voice dropped an octave to soft and intimate, and her skin warmed in response. “My father. He came.”
Surprise rushed through her. “I’m happy to hear that.”
Farrah really was. She wanted Blake to find peace with his father. What she didn’t want was for her heart to go all crazy on her, like it was doing right now.
“How do you know each other?” Paul’s voice cut between them, and Farrah yanked her gaze away from Blake’s.
She’d forgotten Paul was there.
The darkness returned to Blake’s expression. “We used to date.” He maintained his crushing grip on Paul’s hand.
Paul’s face reddened, and Farrah glared at Blake. He smirked in return.
“So, how long have you two been dating?” he asked conversationally. The soft intimacy was gone, replaced by silk-covered steel.
“A month.” This time, Farrah was the one who smirked when Blake’s eye twitched at the implied meaning behind her words.
It took me no time to move on.
Not true, and she went on her first date with Paul two weeks ago. But Blake didn’t need to know that. Besides, if you rounded up, fifteen days counted as a month.
“Good for you. It takes most people longer than that to find a decent rebound.” Icicles hung from Blake’s barb.
Paul finally yanked his hand away.
The sudden anger in Farrah’s stomach skipped the simmering stage and went straight to full-on boiling. “There was no one to rebound from.”
Blake’s eyes sparked with challenge. “No? It didn’t seem that way when you were moaning my name every night.”
Thwack!
Pain blossomed in her palm.
