Or maybe take the biggest risk of all and see if there could be anything real with Carter?

  I honestly don’t know.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  CARTER

  There was a time that being invited to my father’s office felt like a privilege. I was eager to learn or to show off. But somewhere along the way, it morphed into a summons to my doom. Dramatic, but it’s one of the few things that makes me grit my teeth instantly because there’s no winning in Dad’s office.

  It’s his domain, his den, his realm of complete authority. And while he means well, without the balance my mother provides, I always feel as though I’m being called to the principal’s office after sending my underwear up the flagpole. Not that I did that. That was my brother Cole. But we all learned from that disaster exactly how fast the vein in Dad’s forehead can pump.

  I tilt my head left and right, popping my neck, and prepare to enter his inner sanctum. From her desk, his secretary smiles blandly. “He’s waiting for you.”

  “Scale of one to ten?”

  “Mm, three. You’re good to go.”

  I appreciate her comment and give her a small smile to let her know. The assessment lets me know that I’m not walking into an ambush.

  I open the door and realize I asked the wrong question, or not the follow-up I should’ve . . . is he alone?

  My dad is sitting behind his desk, which is one of those old-school, oversized, dark walnut numbers, in a tufted, dark green leather chair. He’s the epitome of a powerful CEO, practically ready for a Forbes photographer at any moment, and exactly what I expected. However, sitting across from him is my brother, Cameron, whose eyes are stone-hard as they meet mine.

  Damn, what’s his issue? You’d think he’d be a little grateful that I took care of Grace on the fly when he was out doing God knows what. I’ll never resent Grace for needing me anytime or for anything, but Cameron? Another issue altogether. We give each other shit freely and easily, competing against each other while simultaneously being willing to kill for one another.

  Shutting the door behind me, I take my time striding to the other chair in front of the desk, reading their faces. “Hey, Dad, Cameron.”

  “Have a seat.” Dad holds out a hand like I don’t know where I’m supposed to sit, like we haven’t had a hundred meetings with the three of us in this triangle of a power dynamic.

  Appearances are key, so I lean back in the chair, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. Outwardly, I’m unconcerned, chill as a Choco Taco in a January blizzard. “What’s up?”

  Dad’s eyes flick to Cameron and then back to me. They’ve been talking about me, that much is clear.

  “Dad wants us to work together on my venture capital deal,” Cameron says flatly, obviously not on board with that plan in the slightest.

  “The restaurant one?” Now I’m the one looking between my brother and dad. “Why?”

  This is where Dad steps in. “It’s a big investment that needs close monitoring. I thought having two Harringtons involved would make that more manageable.”

  I lean over to Cameron, talking as though Dad can’t hear us. It’s a trick we’ve done since we were kids that lets us say things out loud that we would never say directly to Dad. “Does he think you can’t handle it? Your plan was spot-on.”

  Cameron leans in too, the trademark Harrington grin on his face. “You read my plan?”

  I lift a wry brow in answer. He knows I obsessively scoured the damn thing after the meeting. He would’ve done the same thing if I dropped a surprise investment opportunity with zero notice. Actually, maybe I should do that with Elena’s deal? That’d show them I can bring value to the table.

  His grin grows with my lack of admission.

  “I’m good, though I’d never turn down some help. But I think this one is about you, man.” He jerks his head toward Dad.

  Me? Why?

  Choosing the direct route instead, I ask Dad, “What’s the deal? It sounds like Cameron’s got the restaurant under control.”

  Dad’s shrug is noncommittal. “Like I said, it’s a big job, and you don’t have anything specific on your plate right now, so I thought you could help out. You always push each other to do better.”

  This is one of the ways Cameron and I started our perpetual competition with one another. As the second oldest, I wanted to do everything my big brother did when we were kids, and as the oldest, he wanted me to leave him alone. Our parents cultivated our relationship as brothers by encouraging us to play together, whether in the yard or on a baseball diamond, and later, to play against each other in school, in business, and in life. The result is a rivalry built on shared experiences and a love that we show by giving each other massive amounts of shit whenever possible.

  “Putting one and one together, I take it you think I need Cameron to push me right now?” I summarize bluntly. Because I don’t have time for games and double-speak right now. I’m too busy with my notes and follow-up from dinner at Elena’s.

  Not that Dad knows that.

  Dad chuckles. “You don’t have to make it sound like a bad thing.”

  “Seriously? You’re basically forcing Cameron to let me tag along on his big deal like some pitiful puppy no one wants.”

  “Woof, woof.” Cameron’s sound effects are not needed, and I shoot him a warning glance that he thankfully accepts.

  “If you don’t have anything going on, help Cameron.” Dad’s declaration is final, or at least in his mind, it is.

  “And if I have something going on?” I challenge. I’m playing with fire because I don’t want to spill my guts about the possibility of the Cartwright deal, not yet, but I can’t work with Cameron and give Elena the time she deserves.

  Cameron clears his throat, but it doesn’t cover his scoff and I glare at him openly now. Shut the fuck up, Cam.

  “Yeah, Gracie said you had something going on.” He backhands my arm like we’re frat bros, which we definitely are not. “By the way, next time she’s hanging out with you, could you not take her to your latest’s house for an overnight? All I heard was Elena-this and Elena-that. If Gracie doesn’t know about my dating life, I definitely don’t need her knowing about yours.”

  Shit, there’s a lot to unpack there, but I start with . . .

  “Your dating life? I thought you’d taken a vow of celibacy.”

  It’s borderline and I know it, but it’s been a long time since the accident that took Cameron’s wife, and to be honest, even though we argue and compete with one another, I worry about him. He buries himself in work, not because he loves it but because it’s a distraction from the loss I’m sure he still feels acutely. As an unspoken rule, we don’t discuss the accident, never mention his wife’s name, or note that Grace is the spitting image of the mother she doesn’t remember. His mentioning a dating life, even as a joke, is . . . progress? At least in a twisted way.

  “Yeah, well, if I’m celibate, at least you know I’ll never fuck you over. Can’t say the same for you.”

  “Who’s Elena? Someone we should meet?” Dad asks, skipping over the brotherly shit-stirring. He’s always worried about who we date and spend time with, wanting to make sure they’re ‘worthy’ of a Harrington, and in some cases, that no one leads us astray. I think he fell down on that gig by the time Kyle came around, but for the rest of us, it was a constant Q-and-A about anyone we mentioned. Which is why we don’t mention anyone we date to family, especially our parents. Mom would have the wedding half-planned before the introduction was over and Dad would be running a Pentagon-level background check.

  “Maybe, but not like you’re thinking,” I venture carefully, not wanting to say too much, too soon.

  “She must be something real special for you to not bail on the overnight after Kyle saddled you with a tagalong. Sorry about that, by the way. Grace said y’all did some sort of museum visit to look at boring paintings, the pancakes were yummy, and that she got to pet a horse?”

  “Again, yes . . . but not like you’re thinking.” He’s fishing for information that I don’t want to share, but not answering is like chumming already-shark-infested waters. Because Cameron is definitely a shark, but Dad is the head shark of us all.

  “Elena who?” Dad asks, suddenly intrigued.

  “Thanks,” I mutter to Cameron. I could say that Elena is someone I’m casually seeing. Lying is becoming my SOP when the situation warrants it. But I don’t.

  “Elena Cartwright. Strictly professional, I assure you.”

  Dad’s eyes narrow, and if his head were transparent, I think I’d see a tiny elf erratically flipping through file cabinets, looking for an encyclopedia entry on the name Elena Cartwright.

  And I see the moment the elf finds the correct file when Dad’s eyes widen and the proverbial lightbulb over his head lights up. “What in the Sam-hill are you doing with Elena Cartwright?”

  “When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you. Until then, I’ve got it handled.” I try to sound confident, maybe even arrogant. Dad respects both. Cameron respects neither, at least not in others.

  “You had dinner with the matriarch of one of the wealthiest families in the state, and now you’re holding out on us. Spill your guts or I’ll spill them for you.” He makes a slicing motion across his waist, as though he would have the courage to attack me physically. We both know his daggers are verbal.

  “I’ve got it handled,” I repeat.

  “Look, I’ve heard of Elena, so I know what she’s capable of. Why are you talking to her?” Dad asks again. Except it’s not a question this time.

  I don’t want to say. I’ve already said too much, and if I spill any more, there’s no way I’m going to be left alone to handle this. But Dad isn’t the type you tell no. Especially about business.

  Resigned, I sigh and search the ceiling for how best to say this, where I come out the hero for having brought the Cartwright portfolio to Blue Lake Assets all by myself. No shared credit, no shared responsibility.

  “Carter.” Dad’s patience is waning, the vein in his forehead starting to pulse.

  Meeting his eyes, I say proudly, “I’m talking to her about taking over her portfolio management.”

  Dad leans forward in interest. “Are you serious? Her portfolio is massive, diversified, and . . . seriously?” His brows are climbing his forehead as he tries to decide whether I’m telling tall tales or the truth.

  I smile triumphantly, though I haven’t sealed the deal yet. I know Elena is going to sign with me. She has to after this weekend.

  For a long moment, I wait for Dad to return the smile. He’s got to be proud of me for chasing down this opportunity. It’s not a make-or-break for Blue Lake Assets because we’re so large ourselves, but gaining Elena Cartwright’s portfolio as a client would be a massive win for us. Which means it’s a huge win for me.

  Because this is my deal. Even if it’s in the early days.

  Dad stands up, coming around his desk and leaning back on the front of it between Cameron and me. With his arms over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles, he says, “This sounds like an exciting prospect. Good job, Carter.”

  I beam at the approval. I hate to admit it, but I do. I’ve worked hard for so many years to please my dad, to feel worthy of the Harrington name, and in one little sentence, I feel like I’ve finally done that.

  “We’ll have dinner with her. The whole family shebang. We need to woo her, really show her what the Harringtons and Blue Lake are all about,” Dad decides.

  And just like that, the balloon of pride filling up inside me pops, leaving strings of latex self-doubt and frustration in its wake. “No, Dad. This is my deal. I’m handling it, and it won’t include the five-ring circus we call a family.”

  “This is a potential Blue Lake Asset deal, and if a little Harrington is good, a lotta Harrington is better. We’re not a five-ring circus. We’re a close-knit, passionate family who happens to know a thing or two about making people money. That’s what Elena Cartwright cares about.”

  I hear what he’s not saying loud and clear. He doesn’t think I can do this on my own. He thinks I’m not good enough to secure the deal alone and is taking over because he thinks I’ll fuck it up.

  “You have no idea what she cares about. I do. I’ve done the research, put in the hours.” I almost admit that I’ve gone above and beyond to a point that no one else in the family would be willing to do.

  “Then I’ll ask her what she cares most about . . . at dinner,” Dad says. “Any food things I should tell the chef?”

  Once my dad has made up his mind, there’s no changing it. I think I could literally switch out his brain with a new one, and he’d wake up from the transplant surgery still planning a dinner for Elena. But I have to try.

  “Dad, stop. I’ve got this under control. Sometimes, going in full-throttle isn’t the move, and finesse isn’t exactly your style.”

  “I was finessing before you were a thought in my ball sack, Son. Now what should I tell the chef?”

  “Yeah, that’s some smooth moves, Dad.” I glare at him mockingly, hoping he’ll see reason and yield, but he stares back, giving no quarter.

  “She likes horses, pancakes, and art,” Cameron offers, and when I sharply cut my eyes to him, he shrugs. “At least according to Grace.”

  Dad nods, as if it’s everything he needs. “This is happening with or without you, Carter.”

  I feel like this whole thing is being taken from my hands no matter how much I scramble to keep ahold of it for myself. I weigh my options, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut in the first place. But that bell can’t be unrung.

  So, what are my options? Say nothing and play second-fiddle to Dad when he contacts Elena. In that case, even if Elena signs with Blue Lake, it won’t be my acquisition, it’ll be Dad’s. Or give in and try to hold on to some degree of control of this deal.

  “I don’t know if she’s allergic to anything, but she must prefer chicken or pork because there was no red meat at our dinner, breakfast the next day, or the lunch charcuterie board.”

  Why am I sharing this and how the hell did this happen? This is supposed to be my big deal, and now I’m discussing menu options like I’m Martha Stewart or some shit. Next thing you know, I’ll be making napkin origami swans.

  “It’s settled then. Carter, get with Elena and invite her for dinner as soon as possible and then let me know what night. I’ll need a full run-down of everything you’ve got so we’re on the same page. Cameron, looks like you’re back to working on the restaurant alone.”

  Dad claps his hands sharply and strides back around his desk, returning to his chair. I guess that means we’re dismissed.

  In the hall, Cameron whistles quietly. “Damn, man, I had no idea that’s what you were working on. Grace kept talking about Elena, and I thought you had a new hook-up.”

  “You thought I’d take your daughter with me to a hook-up? I’m not a monster.”

  Cameron smiles a small smile. “I trust you with Grace, implicitly. You probably more than anyone else. You won’t try to put her on a motorcycle . . . Kyle.” He holds up a finger. “Or take her shopping—”

  “Kayla,” I complete for him, and he holds up another finger.

  “Or let her eat her weight in sugar.”

  In unison, we say, “Mom.”

  “For fuck’s sake, you showed Gracie art and horses, let her sleep with Nutbuster, and fed her ‘shark-coochie’. She thinks you’re the best.”

  “Because I am,” I volley back. “To be clear, I’m pretty sure she meant charcuterie.”

  “I know, but don’t you dare tell her how to say it correctly. I haven’t had to put a sandwich together in months, and it cracks me up every time she says that’s what she wants for dinner.”

  I can see the light of humor in his eyes, and it reassures me in a deep part of my gut. We all worry about him, but finding joy in little things like your daughter’s mispronunciation of a difficult word is a good sign.

  “Does she have you playing Royal Family yet? I might’ve gone a bit overboard on the tiara, but she earned it. Not to mention, she negotiated for it like a damn pro. She’ll be interning before she’s eighteen at this rate.”

  ‘A bit overboard’ is being kind. By the time I took Grace home, she’d talked me into a plastic rhinestone-encrusted tiara with purple silk roses and curled ribbons that hung down her back plus a gold one with rainbow rhinestones for Peanut Butter.

  “Yeah, since Peanut Butter left his at our house . . .”

  He pauses and together, we say, “Kyle.”

  Cameron continues, “That one is mine for now, but I only warrant a loaner and have to share it with the dog.”

  I smile but don’t give him a bit of shit because we’d all do the same for Grace, and he says, “Good luck on this Elena deal, man. I think you might need it with Dad acting that excited.”

  His expression says I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more than luck. I might need a genie and three wishes, and even then, I may not be able to get in front of the steamroller better known as Charles Harrington the Second.

  “Shit. I’m fucked, aren’t I?” I ask, not sure if I want him to tell me the truth or a white lie that’ll make me feel better.

  “Completely and thoroughly, six days a week, and twice on Sunday,” he answers.

  Yeah, the white lie would’ve been better.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  LUNA

  “Luna!”

  The yell through my door is accompanied by loud banging that scares the snot out of me. I startle, a squeaking noise escaping as I instinctively try to hide in the corner behind the couch.

  Do I have an outstanding warrant I don’t know about? Is the SWAT team gonna bust through my door? Maybe they’ll go away if I’m silent?