“You need to prepare him—really prepare him,” I insist back. “Like, make sure he doesn’t have a heart attack or ask questions that will make O2 feel bad. Seriously, what were you thinking just springing us on him like this?”
“I don’t know,” he answers from between clenched teeth. “What were you thinking not telling me about her for damn near six years, Red.”
“That you’d make a terrible father, Griff,” I answer honestly. I’m so angry. I can barely keep my voice at a whisper level. “That she’d be better off without you because, obviously, you do not think about anybody but yourself when you come up with these insanely evil plans of yours.”
Griffin’s face collapses. Just for a moment—like a stone wall starting, then deciding not to crumble. But in that moment, he actually looks hurt. Like my words cut him.
And, for an equally short moment, I feel bad for hurting his feelings. I mean, how hard did the lesson that O2 was more than an accessory who could fit seamlessly into my planned life in New York hit after she was born? And Griffin’s only known about her existence for a few days.
But then I remember how he didn’t show me any mercy in that basement conference room. Why should I show him any now? I’ve got to make him see reason, for O2’s sake.
“Just let us go back to the hotel,” I suggest. “I bet the car is still there. Tell your dad whatever story you want to make up. Make sure he’s cool. Then introduce him to O2. Remember, she’s innocent in all this.”
His jaw ticks. “You can’t go back to the suite at the Benton.”
My heart sinks. I guess there really isn’t any human underneath all that monster.
“But you can go upstairs and wait in Dad’s office while I explain everything to him. Then I’ll bring him up there to meet you…and Olivia.”
Relief unsinks my heart. Sure, I’m still somehow engaged to a truly despicable Ruthless Reaper turned Ruthless Mogul. But at least he’s willing to listen to me when it comes to O2’s emotional welfare. It feels like a win.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Then I turn to O2—only to have my heart give out when I see that she’s no longer standing where we left her.
“Where is she—?” I start to ask.
Then my heart stops again when I spot her addressing a group of adults semi-arced around her, like she’s giving a TED Talk.
“Mommy knew my dad was G-Latham, but she didn’t tell me, and she didn’t tell him. I think she wanted it to be a surprise. Maybe for my birthday at the end of the month. I don’t know,” she’s telling her audience as we approach. “But it’s okay. After my dream dad found me, he asked Mommy to marry him. And now they’re both going to be my parents. I miss my play aunts and play cousins. But I like it here. And Jenni took me to see the hotel dolphins. Did you see the hotel dolphins?”
Oh. My. God. I don’t know whether to grab O2 and run or shake her for doing the exact opposite of staying put, like she should have.
“Are you talking about the dolphins over at The Mirage?” an older woman with a hairspray helmet of blonde hair asks. She’s wearing a shimmery white dress that could double for a kaftan but probably costs too much money to just wear around the house. “I adore that exhibit.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell us you’re Griffin’s daughter?” a gorgeous, clean-cut man with dark brown hair asks O2. He looks a lot like Griffin, if Griffin was slightly taller, lean instead of muscular, and loved that classic all-American, clean-cut preppy look as much as he did tattoos.
I step in there to address the two people I’m assuming are Griffin’s brother and his mother.
“I’m sorry about this,” I say, cupping O2’s shoulders. “We’re just going to go wait upstairs—”
“You’re not the one who should be sorry, darlin’,” a voice with a booming Tennessee accent responds.
Oh no…
It’s too late to run upstairs. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and Greg Latham steps forward.
He’s a tall man with thick silver locks and the kind of rough-hewn cragginess Southern men who grew up in the backcountry possess, no matter how much you polish them up.
He glares down his large nose at me. “Is what she’s saying true? Is this girl my granddaughter? And are you planning on marrying my son?”
Okay, I lived in New York City with all sorts of folks for years, but I was raised in Tennessee. It instantly occurs to me that just because they named Latham County after this man, that doesn’t mean he’s a paragon of race relations. I recall the face tattoo story. Is that what this is?
Griffin purposefully pissing his dad off by announcing he’s about to marry a Black woman—and introducing him to his half-Black granddaughter?