One Bossy Dare

Even if our entire marriage was almost predestined and arranged by family ties, I want to believe I can love her.

I can fall back in love with Aster, somehow.

If only so I can be the father and husband and shepherd my family deserves.

Present

That was the last time.

The last argument.

The last time believing I could ever patch the holes in my family.

There wasn’t a chance to get Dess a rock-solid nanny and there was no counseling when we got back to Seattle. Aster didn’t make it that far.

Fuck, my head is throbbing.

I rip open my desk drawer and fumble around for the Tylenol bottle, tossing a couple pills down my gullet.

I know better than to let these memories wash over me, especially when they’re triggered so easily by an old face I should’ve been prepared for.

They always leave me with a drumming headache. I go to the coffee machine on my sideboard, pop in a Wired Cup capsule, and pour two espresso shots to chase the painkillers.

The combination might not be optimal, but right now it’s strong coffee or a proper drink.

Because Troy Clement is absolutely right, no matter what bad memories he dredges up.

Change is the only constant. Ever.

The change I need next is a bold new coffee that makes Wired Cup a brand people talk about again. I want people who have never stepped foot in our stores screeching about the campfire coffee on social media. I want my great grandpa’s legacy reborn.

My team just needs to figure out how to make it happen.

I pick up the office phone and call Katelyn.

“Hey, Mr. Lancaster. What do you need?” she answers, cheerful as ever.

“Have we landed an interview with our new friend yet?”

“She can’t come in before seven p.m.”

My brows lift. “Why so late?”

“Ah, that. I couldn’t get an answer out of her. She just said that if you wanted to see her, that’s the only time she has available.” There’s a heavy pause on Kate’s end. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Tell her I’ll see her at seven. Today. Thank you.” I slam the phone back in its cradle with my eyes flicking to the red-and-white pill bottle again.

I just wonder how big my headache will be by the time I’m done with this strange, infuriatingly gorgeous woman and the pile of absolute bullshit she seems determined to shovel into my life.

A little after six, Kate comes strolling into my office.

The click of her heels doesn’t feel like a mallet against my skull. The headache is better.

“Are you sure you don’t want me or someone from HR to stick around?” she asks.

“Not necessary. I can handle a simple interview. I don’t need either of you working so late to accommodate this little cactus. Go home to your family,” I say.

“Mr. Lancaster—” She hesitates.

Damn. What am I in trouble for now?

“...it’s just highly unusual to conduct an interview so informally this late. I worry her motives might be less than pure. If you don’t have someone sitting in, it’s going to be difficult to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” I cock my head.

“Erm—well—your very blunt tongue. What if you set her off like you did at the store?”

I throw back my head and laugh.

“Katelyn, please. I’ve handled a thousand interviews in my day. I can handle this night owl who wants to pluck out my tongue, too, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Badger.” She clears her throat. “Um, that’s the animal Destiny gave her, right?”

I sigh. “I don’t care what her spirit animal is. I just want to get this over with.”

“Sounds like a hint someone should stay. Just to keep you on your toes, y’know?” She flashes a strained smile.

“I don’t need a damn babysitter. I’ve got this.”

“Sorry. If you insist—”

“I do.” I throw her a heavy look. “For the last time, go home. Feed your kids and husband.”

“Where’s Destiny? You’re usually not here this late. Has she eaten yet?”

I hold back a smile.

Annoying or not, I remember why I have the best staff when Kate Storm cares this much about my daughter.

I’m not sure Destiny and I ever would’ve come through Aster’s demise as well as we have without my team.

“I told her it’s pizza night with her friends. Thanks, though,” I say.

“I gotcha, boss. Okay, I’m out. Good luck!”

I have exactly two minutes to brace for that siren with her honey-sweet eyes and a spear for a tongue.

Then Eliza sails into my office wearing mildly faded jeans and a flannel button-down shirt. She looks like she just stepped off a shift at a wood mill.

Nice interview-wear. You look like a Pearl Jam fan circa 1990, I think bitterly.

Still, the fact that I agreed to speak with her this late tells her I’m willing to make certain accommodations if she can work her coffee magic.

I haven’t said a word, raking her with a silent, assessing look.