looks out for me.”
The waiter reappears with our drinks and I hold my squat crystal tumbler out to Presley’s fancier glass. She clinks it against mine and takes a sip, immediately coughing.
“See, rocket fuel.”
“It’s great,” she wheezes, stubborn as hell. “I love it.”
“Sure you do.”
She takes another sip, steeling herself as if to prove a point. Presley’s not the kind of person who likes to feel like she can’t keep up, that much is obvious. “When are you going back to Sydney?” she asks.
“Eager to get rid of me?”
She laughs. “You’re not the only one who can be curious.”
“I’m staying for a while.” Not that I’ve told anyone in my family yet—that surprise will come soon enough. “Got things to take care of.”
“Like taking over a family business?” She tilts her head, studying me.
“Who said that?”
She lifts one shoulder into a shrug. Her cheeks are pink—it’s warm in here and she places her drink down so she can slip out of her leather jacket. I try not to stare as she peels it from her body, exposing rounded shoulders and fair skin, starkly contrasted with the black-lace trim of the silky top she wears. Its straps are so delicate, I could snap them with the gentlest of tugs. A slim gold chain sits nestled against her collarbone, the links so fine they look more like a sprinkling of fairy dust.
“Mike was feeling insecure about taking over the company—and he’s not a man who feels insecure as often as he should.” She makes a soft snorting noise. “There had to be a reason for that. His father doesn’t strike me as the type to bring an outsider in, which means Mike was feeling threatened by someone closer to home. And that would be you.”
“Prodigal son...of sorts.”
“Exactly.” She smooths her palm over the velvet couch, back and forth as though enjoying the way the pile shifts.
“Maybe I’m home because I’m ready to admit I’ve made a mess of things with my dad,” I say. “He’s not getting any younger. He’s retiring at sixty for a reason.”
Her guarded expression drops, eyebrows knitting above her fine, pert nose. “What reason?”
Mike hadn’t told her? Figures. He probably kept her out of the loop on a lot of things—easier for him to keep his power that way. But Presley’s worried expression tells me she holds some affection for my father, despite everything that’s happened.
“He had a heart attack a couple months ago. It’s his second.” I’d wanted to fly down to see him, but tensions were still high and my stepmother had asked me not to come because it might put further strain on his heart. “The stress of his job has been slowly killing him.”
Presley pressed a palm to her chest, her mouth hanging open. “I had no idea.”
“He’ll be fine, but he needs to step back from work. The CEO role is a big load. He’s planning to serve as a board member only and leave the day-to-day running of the company to someone else,” I explain. “The doctor warned him lots of men in his position don’t take action early enough and sometimes...it’s too late.”
“And then I abandoned them all at the wedding. I’ve caused so much stress.” She looks up at me, eyes wide.
“Presley.” I touch her arm. “You did what you felt was right. It’s not like you even knew.”
“What if he’d had another heart attack? I can’t believe Mike didn’t tell me his father was sick.”
“Mike’s stepfather,” I correct automatically.
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “Of course, he’s your father.”
It’s funny how my brain has latched on to clarifying their relationship and not on the fact that my father is unwell. I’ve been so focused on my goal of taking over the family company that I’m not allowing my brain any space to process what’s going on with my father’s health, and that’s not an accident. I can’t deal with that right now.
I don’t know how to deal with it.
“He was always nice to me,” she says, reaching for her drink. “He invited us around for barbeques and was helping us look for a house.”
“He’s a good man,” I say, forcing down the swell of emotion that threatens to drown me. I’m the one who wanted to talk, but we’ve veered into dangerous territory. I reach for my drink and knock it back, welcoming the brain-numbing and edge-smoothing qualities. “Hey, do you feel like dancing? There’s music upstairs.”
She nods, eyes a little glassy. Her care for my father is like a