Risky Business

I look to Jayme, who tears her glare from Dad to look back at me.

Is he for real? her eyes ask.

Unfortunately, yes, I answer silently.

I sigh and spell it out slowly for him. “You basically offered her my job with me sitting right here. At minimum, you framed it as job sharing the single role. She’s a consultant. She consulted, and now it’s time for us to continue on as the Americana Land family we are.”

I’ve realized something important through this mess. Dad really does have my best interests at heart. I’ve been reading so much into his every word and motion for so long that I’ve made him out to be this villain in my head, but the truth is, he’s not. And my making him one needs to stop. No more biting my tongue or assuming he understands what I want or think. I have to speak up, spell it out with hieroglyphics if necessary for us to understand each other.

Actually, maybe that’s a good idea. We’re two men who’ve never been good at communicating, so maybe grunts and stick figures are the way to go.

“I didn’t mean . . . uh, to offend . . . either of you. I’m sorry.” He stumbles to find the words in his confusion, but his apology is simple and sincere, and I believe him, given the way he’s continued looking back and forth between us like we’re explaining quantum physics and he’s stuck on the page-one intro in the textbook.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “But it’s a definite sign that we’ve got some work to do.” We both know I’m not talking about whatever emails are piling up in our inbox, but rather some personal work to improve our relationship.

Jayme dips her chin at Dad deferentially, offering a polite smile. “Thank you, Ben. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

He snorts out a self-deprecating laugh, truthfully stating, “I somehow doubt that.”

“You were right about one thing.” The tease catches both of their attention. I lock eyes with Jayme, and she lifts a brow, her smirk giving me permission for what I’m about to say. “Jayme and I do work well together.”

With that, I drop my arm over her shoulder in a familiar move and she scoots closer to my side.

Dad snaps his fingers and points at us victoriously. “I knew it! Like father, like son. Sometimes, it hits you in strangest places.”

A few weeks ago, I would’ve been murderous for him to say I’m like him in the slightest. Now, begrudgingly, I admit that it’s true in more ways than one. And if Jayme and I are half as happy as he and Izzy have been after their taboo workplace romance, we’ll be lucky as hell.

“Does that mean we’ll see you at the charity event?” Dad inquires curiously.

Jayme grins. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

CHAPTER 23

JAYME

“Hey, Mom!” I say as I answer the door. She’s sipping on an iced coffee from Starbucks and holding an extra one for me. I take it gratefully, sucking down a healthy amount in one go.

Mom watches with interest, scanning my face carefully. Probably to see if any checked luggage bags have appeared beneath my eyes yet. “Hi, honey. Up late again?”

She’s more curious than accusatory, well aware that my work happens 24/7/365, but always worried that I’m working myself to the bone.

“Up early this time,” I correct with a shrug as she follows me into my apartment and makes herself at home on the other end of the couch from me so we can catch up. “Patrick’s got a new assignment for me.”

“Where are you going this time?” More often than not, Mom knows it all—who I’m working with, where I’m going, and an estimate of how long the assignment will be. Even when I don’t tell Mom who I’m working with, she always knows where I’m at when I travel.

“Nowhere. I can do this one long-distance. All done via Zoom and FaceTime. There’s a time zone difference, though, hence the early morning.”

After updating Patrick about the success of my Americana Land assignment and agreeing that our reputation consultant contract had been fulfilled, I took a few days off to catch up. But before I knew it, I was dealing with another crisis and managing the excitement that comes from figuring out the problem and how best to resolve it. Luckily, other than the early mornings, it’s a pretty painless contract.

“Oh, good! Does that mean you can come to dinner next weekend?”

It’s a completely straightforward question about a perfectly normal activity. Our family gets together for dinner as often as possible, usually once a month, and whoever can come does. My brothers and I are busy people, though, so if someone can’t make it, it’s not a big deal. But something about Mom’s tone is suspect.

I take another sip of my iced coffee, giving Mom a more thorough assessment. She and I resemble each other—the same height, same size, same facial features, though her eyes are hazel compared to the brown ones that I got from my dad. And luckily, that hopefully means in a few decades I’m still going to be turning heads when I want to the way Mom does.