“It’s after two,” he says curtly, just as confused by the gesture as I am. “I don’t drink coffee after two.”
“Okay.” I bob my head, eyes again on the office now feet away, just as Dad hangs up the phone and starts to make his way toward us. Guilt and panic mix, prompting me to flee before he can reach me with his probing eyes. By the time flight kicks in, he’s already striding toward me, seemingly as confused as Alex.
“What’s up?” Dad asks as he joins me at Alex’s desk.
“Kid was just asking me if I wanted some coffee.”
“You can fetch your own, asshole,” Dad snarks, giving me a wink.
“Well, as everyone knows,” Alex fires back, “I don’t drink coffee after two.”
“No one knows, Alex,” Dad taunts dryly, “nor cares.”
“I want no special treatment,” I remind him. “I have no issue getting coffee.”
“Well, you don’t have to play gopher or clean toilets. You’ve paid those dues already. This is a family-owned business, so there should be advantages to being a Butler, even if you write under Hearst.”
I nod, not in agreement, but because I’m staring at him with an altered perception while trying to forget what I just read, the gnawing in my gut constant.
He loved Stella. He really loved her. It was so evident.
An image of my smiling mother, riding next to me on Daisy, her favorite Haflinger, flashes through my mind as new pain sears through my chest.
“Well?” Dad chuckles.
“Well, what?” I ask.
“Your coffee,” he nods toward my forgotten cup.
“Right. Want some?”
“No thanks, baby, I’m good.”
“Oh!” I say loudly, startling him. “Mom wants you to pick up Chinese on the way home.”
“’K,” he nods before frowning. “You aren’t coming over?”
“Tomorrow,” I back away slowly, my eyes plastered to his. “I’m going to go get coffee.” I toss a thumb over my shoulder, turn, and practically sprint to the breakroom to fill my cup. Mid-brew, I begin panicking about the fact I might have left a window open on my desktop. Discarding my cup in the sink, I haul ass back toward my office to see Dad’s still standing at Alex’s desk, making small talk. It’s when he sees me empty-handed that he follows me into my office.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Okay,” he sounds behind me in his distinct dad tone, “time to tell me what’s going on.”
Relief washes over me briefly as he takes a seat opposite my desk before I round it to see I did close it all out.
“Nothing, I’m just thinking. I got a line on something, but I don’t know if the source is credible.”
He dips his chin in understanding. “So then, what are the rules?”
“According to my expensive education, or my dad?”
“Dad,” he smirks. “Better choice.”
“Don’t run it unless it’s concrete.”
“There you go,” he says with a grin. “Or?”
“Find a better source.”
“That’s my girl.” He stands as I look him over. He’s well into his fifties but doesn’t look a day over forty-five. Women have been fawning over him my whole life, especially my teachers when I attended grade school. It was embarrassing.
He tosses a glance over his shoulder as he heads toward the door. “You sure that’s all?”
“How many times have you been in love, Daddy?” I ask, as casually as I can manage.
“Ah, so this is about a guy? That explains it.” He frowns. “You didn’t tell me you were dating again.”
I broke up with my college ex, Carson, just after graduating from UT last May. Carson took a job in New York, knowing I wouldn’t leave Texas. He made his decision—and it wasn’t me. It’s been surprisingly easy to live with. Dating afterward felt like a chore, so I’ve been opting out and concentrating on the paper instead.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
One side of his mouth quirks up as he squeezes the stress ball forever attached to his hand. “First and foremost, a journalist.”
“Always. So, really, Dad, how many times have you been in love?”
I study his expression carefully, his relaxed posture as he answers easily.
“A few times.”
“So, more than once?”
His grin grows. “Yes, a few generally constitutes more than one.”
“Was…did you…” I bite my lip, “were any of them…I-I—”
“Okay, is this something you want to talk to me about? Because it doesn’t seem like it.”
“Maybe another time.” I match his smile, genuinely thankful for the out I so obviously need. “After a few beers. Sorry, I’m just in my head today.”
He pauses before he rounds the desk and presses a kiss to my temple. “All right then, rain check. But for you, I’m an open book. You know that, so just ask.”
Ask him, Natalie, or it will eat you alive.
I open my mouth to ask and curse the coward within refusing to speak up. “Some other time.”
“Deal. Love you,” he whispers.
“Love you too, Daddy,” I croak, hearing the shake in my voice. A shake he doesn’t miss.
Shit.
He pauses at the doorway. “Natalie, you do know you can tell me anything, right?”
Tears threaten as I gaze on at him. Biased as I might be, Nate Butler is the greatest man I’ve ever known. No man has ever held a candle to him, and I doubt one ever will. It’s not just who he is as a journalist or his accomplishments, but it’s how he is personally as well. His warmth, his instilled empathy, and the way he treats people, namely me and my mother.
How could Stella walk away from him?
From their emails, it’s clear it was her choice to leave Texas—to leave my father—only to marry Reid mere months after they ran into each other in Seattle. There’s a story there, but I’m not sure I can stomach any more, yet everything inside me refuses to let it go.
Was Reid a choice? Was the choice made easier for Stella because Reid is a rock star? As the thought occurs, some of my hero worship for Stella Emerson Crowne dims.
I should be thankful she did what she did. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t exist.
“Would you believe I’m oddly sentimental today?” I lie to my father a second time—a rarity—knowing that the anxiety etched on his face is because visible signs of emotion are an anomaly for me.
Though his expression calls bullshit, he heads toward my office door anyway, giving me the space I need to come to him, if and when I’m ready. That’s our relationship. He stops at the threshold and glances over his shoulder one last time. “Give it some more time, if you need it.”
He thinks I’m still mourning my breakup with Carson when, oddly, I’m mourning his.
“Heals all wounds, right?” I prod as subtly as I can manage.
The crease between his brows deepens. “Right.”
“But in your experience, does it really?”
He pauses briefly and grins. “The only truth about time is that it flies. Just yesterday, you were bitching about the way I was braiding your hair because you,” he lifts his fingers in air quotes, “‘want them to be as pretty as Macey Mc Callister’s.’”
“Was I that much of a brat?”
“You were and are the perfect child. That’s why you’re an only.” He taps the frame of the door. “I’m taking off. See you tomorrow.”
“Night, Daddy.”
Taking his leave, he walks over to his office, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, and turns out the light. The second he disappears into the lobby, I divert my attention back to the screen housing the pinned folder that holds more details of my father’s personal past.
The battle begins as unanswered questions begin rotating in my head.
What the hell happened between my father and Stella Emerson Crowne?
My gut tells me that even if I did ask him outright, he still wouldn’t be the credible source in finding the whole of the story. If I want the whole truth, I’ll have to open the file and further invade his privacy or find another source.
Twenty minutes later, I stop the debate and reopen the archives, dangerously assuring myself before I do. “Just a few more.”
Anytime
Brian McKnight
Natalie