What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

Rushing forward, I scan the general sitting area for my purse, finding it half under the couch. I grab it and sit down as Dash turns to watch me retrieve my phone from inside. “My mom. She’s traveling and I had my phone on vibrate at the party. I just need to make sure I didn’t miss any of her calls.” I check my call log to find two calls from Tyler and one from my father.

“Everything okay?” Dash asks, sitting down next to me.

“Nothing from my mother. Just Tyler and my father.” I hit the text message log and read the message from Tyler: Tonight was a work event, Ms. Wright. Call me back.

Dash must read my expression. “Everything still, okay?”

“I need to call Tyler and I may quit my job.”

He refills my glass. “Not that I have any problem with you telling Tyler to fuck off. But maybe you should drink that and call him in the morning.”

“Except I have a real need to know if he knew what he was doing when he invited my father to his party.” I pick up the glass and sip, the burn in my throat and rush to my head a reminder that drinking is a bad idea. “Okay, that’s probably not a good idea.” I set the glass down. “I haven’t eaten in a very long time.”

“Food is ordered. If you have to make that call tonight, eat first.”

“I don’t think I can do that. If you don’t mind—”

“Of course, I don’t mind. I just don’t want you to regret what you may or may not say when you do.”

“Me either,” I say, “but I’m still going to make the call. I’d like to keep the paycheck Tyler offered me coming in, but I have savings. I don’t like using it, but I came to Nashville, ready and willing. If I have to donate my time to work on the auction, rather than be auctioned off myself, I’m willing.” And on that note, I don’t give myself time to chicken out. I dial Tyler and walk to the window, dread in my belly, but cowardice is not. Been there, done that, and I’m proud of myself for what I’m doing right now, in this minute.

“Ms. Wright,” Tyler answers. “It’s about time you returned my call.”

“Did you know?” I demand.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific with your questions.”

“Did you know that I want nothing to do with my father when you invited him?”

He’s silent a beat before he says. “I did not.” There’s a pulse of agitation on the line before he adds, “He’s been out of the country and came back early to surprise you.”

I want to believe him, I do, but practiced liars can speak a lie as a truth, with nary a hesitation. “How did you know he was my father?”

“While I don’t like being questioned, I sense a history behind your aggression that we need to detach ourselves from. I sent an email to my clients introducing you and explaining your experience Ms. Wright. He’d previously declined the invite to the party, but he called me shortly after receiving the email to accept and ask for my help in surprising you. He also promised a healthy donation.”

“If you’re lying—”

“I am a lot of things, Ms. Wright,” he bites out, “a liar is not one of them.”

“All right then. You should appreciate me being honest and I’m about to be. I won’t deal with him. I don’t even want his donation for the event.” I pause. “Okay. I’ll take the donation because it’s not about me, but the people it can help. If me not dealing with him is going to be a problem—”

“It’s not. I’ll handle your father.”

I quite literally laugh at that idea. I have no idea if Tyler is his attorney or if he dumped my ex altogether and Tyler reps him now, and I really don’t care. “He’s obviously one of your clients, Tyler. We both know he’s the one who will handle you.”

“You underestimate me, Ms. Wright. I’ll handle your father. You handle the auction. And the next time you have a problem, give me the benefit of the doubt, and I will extend you the same. Talk to me. Are we clear?”

“I hope so,” I say. “I’ll see you Monday.” And then I do what I would never do. I just hang up.

Dash is there when I turn, offering me my drink. “I think you need this.”

“Except I still have to go home on my own two feet.”

“Drink the drink, Allie. I told you, I’ll take care of you.”

I know he means tonight, just tonight, but there’s a stir of emotions and a pinch in my chest at his promise. I open my mouth to say what I shouldn’t, not in this situation, “I don’t want to be taken care of,” but I’m saved from both emotional stupidity and foot-in-mouth disease when the doorbell rings. “That will be the food,” Dash says, “I’ll grab it and be right back.”