of jobs they give their word on. It’s a matter of integrity.”
“No, it’s a matter of stupidity.”
Chip’s brash words gave him pause, and his father settled his gaze on him. When he spoke, his delivery was slow and methodical. “Son, I have done a lot of stupid things in my line of work. And my life. This is not one of them.”
Before Chip could open his mouth to speak, he continued. “I am aware of the costs—fiscally and emotionally—for this project, and I have accepted them. What I do not accept, however, is seeing my son”—he paused momentarily—“who is capable of so much, lose everything in one foolhardy move.”
“Foolhardy. It isn’t foolhardy—”
“This job would’ve sunk you. You’re bonded at this level, Chip. So what are you going to do if this man doesn’t work with your change-order requests for a project that’s going overbudget out the gate? If you walk away, that red mark will be on your profile forever. No one would ever insure you or loan you money again. So what would you do instead? Lose a hundred grand, two hundred grand, three hundred, whatever it takes to get this project over with. And then tell me, son, how will you ever move on from there?”
Chip stared at his father, momentarily speechless.
He knew the job was tight. Extremely tight. And before this meeting, he’d been willing to take the chance. But now, seeing the man fifteen rows ahead staring at the ceiling with new inspiration, seeing the gallons of paint in the café, feeling the sinking confirmation of what was at stake . . .
Chip shook his head. “I can’t let you do this. Not on account of me.”
Chip’s father spoke again. “Perhaps you’ll learn this one day, but sometimes, it is a father’s job to take the blow for his child. His enthusiastic, strong-willed, ambitious child who may or may not get his feet tangled up in his dreams on occasion.”
“Yes, but I’m not a child.”
His father’s lips turned up slightly, as though Chip had no idea, no earthly idea, what he was saying. His eyes—the same hue and shape as his son’s—softened. His voice came low but strong. “You are always my child. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He took a step around Chip, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he went.
Chip watched him go, each step sealing his fate.
“Oh, and Chip?” As his dad passed the third row of seats, he paused, turned on his heel. “Your mother has requested you bring your cornbread for supper Sunday. Will we be seeing you?”
His father didn’t want Redpoint Construction to fail and Chip to come running back with his tail between his legs. His father wasn’t trying to pull the rug out from under the competition. In fact, his father didn’t even see him as the competition.
No, he was just his son.
Not the disappointing son. Not the last son. Not the disobedient and unyielding son.
Just . . . his child.
It came down to that.
His child.
For whom he would sacrifice himself if needed.
Chip felt his chest tighten. Resisted the urge to tug on the tie suddenly constricting his throat. “I’ll be there.”
His father nodded and resumed his confident walk to his chosen future.
* * *
Chip walked out of the Barter into the chilly, sunlit air. It was a funny thing to feel free after losing something he’d worked so hard for.
He felt as though he had unknowingly been trying to survive underwater for weeks, months, maybe years. As he pushed open those heavy doors, he emerged from the water and, for the first time in ages, could breathe. Real, big oxygen power filled his lungs, giving him life. He looked around and smiled.
The truth was, he could succeed bit by bit. Moment by moment. Inch by inch. He did, as his father said, have a problem letting his emotions guide his actions sometimes, blinding him to potential consequences. He had just wanted so badly to be successful; he had just wanted so much to prove himself. Now, somehow, even that drive was flittering away as though it were ash cleared by the breeze.
His cloudy thoughts dissipated. Chip stepped across the pedestrian walkway in the midst of the midday traffic, his feet as light as the bronze fairies’ dancing in the fountain ahead of him.
Because today, he knew the one thing he wanted, and it was time, at last, to do something about it.
Chapter 24
Bree
It was time.
Bree’s legs felt like electric currents as she leaned against the wall