The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,23
course.”
“Of course,” she said, offering a smile, wishing she could feel something for this sweet guy.
He strode to the door where he paused. “Seriously, Samira, despite that little speech you gave me earlier, if you want to hang out as friends while you’re in town, just give me a call.”
He grinned and made a corny cocked gun with his thumb and forefinger. “Your mom has my number.”
She smiled as he waved, thankful she’d managed to maneuver through her mom’s first matchmaking attempt and come out unscathed.
If only the same could be said for Kushi’s inappropriately fertilized rosebush.
* * *
* * *
Rory glared at the immaculately trimmed rosebushes in his father’s manicured garden, remembering the time he’d hacked off the flowers in a rare show of rebellion. He’d been seven at the time, struggling at school, being teased incessantly for stuttering and missing his mom. She’d left years earlier, but the fragrance of roses never failed to remind him of her.
“Here you go.”
He turned and accepted the boutique beer his father held out to him. Predictably, Garth Radcliffe had a glass with a double shot of aged whiskey in his other hand. He’d never seen his father drink anything else.
“Thanks.” Rory raised his beer bottle. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” His father downed the whiskey in two gulps. “What brings you by on a Friday night?”
Melbourne’s most prominent barrister never minced words. He also never showed affection or emotion or abided weakness of any kind. And while he hadn’t ever said it, Rory knew his father viewed his stutter as a weakness.
“It’s been a while.” Four months to be exact. “I wanted to touch base.”
Translated, Rory had undergone a session of dialect coaching with Pia and was in a serious funk, because the more time he spent with the speech therapist, the more his fear would grow that he’d never nail the audition in four weeks, and the speech program for underprivileged kids wouldn’t get off the ground.
That was what his impromptu visit to his father was about: giving himself a massive wake-up call that if he didn’t get the host gig for Renegades, he’d be back here having to grovel to a man who’d never let him forget it.
“You want something.” Garth pinned him with a steely glare that had intimidated many of the best lawyers in the country. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
“Nice to see you too, Dad.”
Rory took a slug of beer to swallow the bitterness of being viewed as some usurper when he’d never asked his father for anything. He’d learned in his teens that anything his dad gave came at a price, and he didn’t want to pay it anymore.
“If you want to get into the economics field, I have connections—”
“I’m happy . . . doing what I’m . . . doing.”
Rory paused between the difficult D words because he’d be damned if he stuttered in front of his father. He’d tolerated a lifetime of pitying stares or worse, having Garth finish his sentences for him. He particularly hated that, like his father didn’t have the time to hear him out.
“I’ll never understand how throwing away your degree to tumble around a movie set like some circus clown makes you happy, but each to their own.”
For the first time since he’d set foot in his father’s multimillion-dollar mansion in upscale Brighton, Rory felt some of his tension dissipate.
He’d heard that same spiel from his father countless times over the last five years since he’d eschewed his economics degree in favor of acting. Even though Amelia had made it more than clear to Garth that the deep breathing, repetition, and practice involved in acting could only help his stutter, his father had scoffed. Besides, how could working as a stuntman improve his speech when he never talked on camera?
Deep down, he knew his father’s disdain and lack of faith in him was a major driving force to win the role of hosting Renegades. It was why he’d come, when visiting his father never ended well. He may need the money desperately to fund the start-up foundation for those migrant and refugee kids, but a small part of him couldn’t wait to wipe the smirk off his father’s face.
“And I’ll never understand how you can stand up in court every day defending a bunch of lying criminals, but hey, we do what we have to do.”
Rory drained the rest of his beer and placed the empty bottle on a nearby mosaic-encrusted table. “Thanks for the beer, Dad.”
His mock salute earned a frown. “It