The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

He was masterful at delivering a look that said exactly how irritated he was with me. He flung a finger at the hall. “Be proactive. I’m sure you can find someone out there who knows.”

Right. I went to take a step, but when a man appeared in the office doorway, my heart stopped. My legs turned to stone.

The man lifted a hand and knocked his knuckles against the doorframe to announce himself. He hadn’t spotted me because his gaze was set on Macalister, and I foolishly wondered if I stood perfectly still, maybe I could avoid detection.

“Tate.” Macalister was surprised to see his son’s friend, but not unhappy.

Tate Isaacs smiled, and it was a punch to my gut. I’d gotten nearly everything I’d wanted in my life except for two things—and Tate was one of them. I’d loved this boy once so desperately, my heart still ached when I saw him.

And he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.

He stepped into the office, looking so effortlessly good it was unfair. His gray crosshatch suit was paired with a brightly striped tie, and he strolled forward with his usual swagger.

“Came to see if the rumors were true,” Tate said lightly.

A smile threatened in Macalister’s eyes. “I told you someday you’d come work for me.”

“Yeah, you warned me.” He stopped beside the desk with his back to me, and his voice went uneven. “I never got a chance to speak to you after . . .” His head tipped down. “You’ve every right to be mad, but for me, it was just business with Ascension. I hope you understand.”

Macalister waved a hand as if absolving him from his sins. “Of course. I never thought otherwise.” It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. “How are you liking the asset management department?”

Tate’s posture straightened as if he’d brightened. “It’s busy. So busy, it doesn’t leave much time for sleep.”

“Good. That’s how it should be.”

The men fell silent.

Now the conversation had nowhere else to go, it plummeted into uncomfortable awkwardness.

“Well,” Tate backpedaled and glanced toward his escape, “I just came to by to say hello and I’m down the hall if you need—”

“Yes.” Macalister didn’t waste time waiting for Tate to finish his polite offer. “Please help Sophia locate the kitchen.” Macalister cast a finger toward me and promptly put his attention on his phone.

Tate’s dark eyes went wide when he turned and discovered me frozen beside the couch. I couldn’t imagine what I looked like. It seemed very much like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing either.

“Sophia?” His word was loaded with confusion and distrust.

“She’s my assistant,” Macalister said.

I shoved a smile on my face. “Hey, Tate. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” He smiled back, but I heard the words in his eyes. “It hasn’t been long enough.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “Kitchen’s down the hall. Take a left by the picture of the Seattle branch.” He paused and begrudgingly added, “You want me to show you?”

It came out forced and overly enthusiastic from me. “No, thanks.”

I left the men in the office and scurried out into the hall.

Thankfully, the coffee system was easy to figure out, and by the time I returned with an HBHC insulated cup full of black coffee, Tate was nowhere to be found.

Macalister didn’t bother looking at me as he took the cup from my hand, causing our fingers to brush. That sliver of contact was enough to warrant his attention though. He eyed me curiously as he took a sip.

“I take it you and Tate are no longer together.”

I jolted. “What? No, we never were.”

He studied me like a math equation. “Are you sure? I recall the way you looked at him at Royce’s wedding.”

My pulse kicked. Macalister hadn’t been in the loop the last two years, but before that? He didn’t miss much.

Well, other than his wife’s affair.

“Yeah,” my tone was curt, “I’m positive Tate and I didn’t date.”

“Why didn’t you?” He acted like his question was innocent when it was anything but. “You’re both young and attractive, and you ran in the same social circles.”

I was still off-balance from seeing Tate, and hearing how Macalister found me attractive only added to my disorientation.

I’d been a media darling during my Olympic outing and a homecoming and prom queen. I’d spent my high school and college years believing I was the prettiest girl in the room . . . although never on the inside. Just on the surface. My ego might have rivaled Macalister’s at one point, and by the time I’d graduated with my bachelor’s in communications from Columbia, I’d amassed over a million followers on Instagram.

But faceless strangers, who could say whatever the fuck they wanted without consequences, had no qualms about picking me apart. And, Christ, they were good at it. Every decision I’d made was second-guessed or shouted down, every flaw I tried to disguise was amplified in hurtful comments.