“What makes you think I’m leaving any of this to you?”
I raised my brows. “Who else is there?”
There was a beat of silence. “Maybe I’ll leave it to Isabelle.”
I stared at him. Ah. Was that why Isabelle Farris had called me? To make sure I wasn’t going to get in the way of her huge windfall? To have my father spell things out for me so she didn’t have to? Was that the purpose of this visit?
Back away. This is mine, was her message.
Only I had already been backed away, couldn’t have gotten any more backed away if I’d tried. What kind of game was she playing?
“What would you want with Graystone Hill anyway?”
“I didn’t say I wanted it. But from what I can tell, it’s still a lucrative business. Someone will want it—or portions of it. I run businesses now. I have lawyers and contacts, people who make deals for a living.”
“Good for you. So you’d what, big city boy? Have your fancy lawyers dismantle it piece by piece? Take what you want and who the hell cares about the rest? You can bet your pinstriped ass, Graystone Hill will go to someone who gives more than two fucks about it.”
I took in his angry glare, his stern features, his vivid blue eyes, the same ones I saw in the mirror every morning. “And that’s Isabelle Farris?” I walked to the bookshelf, picking up a picture of my mother on their wedding day and then setting it down. A bolt of anger ricocheted through me. How did he even dare to look at her face day after day? “What’s her story anyway? Where’d she come from?” Did it even matter?
“Careful when it comes to Belle, boy.”
I turned toward him. “I’m not a boy, old man. But don’t worry. I don’t want anything to do with your . . . secretary. If you want Graystone Hill to go to some stranger, that’s your business.”
“Seems to me the only stranger in this equation is you.”
I couldn’t deny it so I merely shrugged.
“You sure have changed,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. I didn’t miss the disdain—disappointment?—in his tone. He waved his hand, apparently indicating all of me. “This is you now?”
I glanced at my suit. “I don’t usually travel like this, but I had a meeting this morning and went straight to the airport.” Had I ever seen the old man in a suit? Did he even own one? Had he worn one to my mother’s funeral? He must have. I could barely remember that day. It’d been raining . . . other than that, when I thought about it, all I could recall was the heart-wrenching grief, the soul-crushing anger.
The betrayal.
“I wasn’t talking about your clothes. Bring me those pills over there and get on out. I have things to do.”
So that was that. A cold dismissal. I thought about saying something more, but what? It wasn’t worth it. Fuck him. Fuck the old distillery. Fuck this miserable house and the land it was on. I didn’t need any of it, just as I didn’t need the man I once called Dad. I’d built my own wealth, my own legacy, and had no need for the arrogant asshole in front of me. Nothing tied me t
o Graystone Hill any longer. That was abundantly clear.
I grabbed the pills and tossed them to my father. He caught them with one hand, our gazes battling, but our lips remaining silent. At least this would be more dignified than the last time I left. The day that had been filled with bellowed words of hatred on my part and stony silence on his. My father opened the bottle and threw back two pills with the water from the glass next to him.
He leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” I said, and then I closed the door behind me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Isabelle
I brought my legs up under me, snuggling into the upholstered armchair in the corner of the library. This was my favorite room in the house. A sanctuary of sorts where I could sip a cup of tea and lose myself in someone else’s story. Although after today’s episode in the truck, I’d decided doing some reading that pertained to my particular story was timely and necessary. I’d been doing so well lately, had found coping mechanisms that worked to keep the nightmares at bay. A small backslide wasn’t unexpected, especially when triggered by something specific. But still, I had fought long and hard for every inch I’d climbed out of the dark well of desolation since the day my world imploded, and I would fight to hang on.
I heard a door close somewhere down the hall and wondered if Brant had turned in for the night. Brant. Several emotions pricked at the inside of my skin when I thought of him. Anger at his arrogant demeanor, as if he knew everything there was to know about a person without asking any questions whatsoever. Anger, yes, but also hurt. He’d pre-judged me, made assumptions, and I didn’t like the way it had felt when he’d glared at me as if I’d wronged him greatly and he was barely tolerating being in the same room.
Why I even cared, I had no idea. I had bigger fish to fry than Brant Talbot. I shouldn’t be wasting a precious moment of emotion on him, when in all likelihood, he’d be out of my life for good in a matter of days, if not tomorrow.
I’d seen him retrieving his bag from his car after he’d spoken to his father. I had to assume things had gone . . . decently, at least. I hadn’t asked Harry when I’d seen him after dinner, and I’d avoided Brant entirely.
Even more disturbing than his disdainful attitude toward me was the buzzing attraction I felt. It bewildered me, made me feel unsettled and edgy. And yet a current of excitement ran beneath my skin that I couldn’t understand, much less extinguish. Why?
I turned the page of my book, my eyes skimming the lines, but not registering the words. I sighed, too distracted to read tonight, though I knew I should force myself to focus. The sudden sensation of prickly warmth on the side of my face made me turn my head abruptly. Brant was standing in the doorway, watching me, an unreadable expression on his far too handsome face. He was wearing jeans and a white button-up shirt and held a bottle of beer in his hand. I yanked my long nightshirt down, trying to cover up my bare legs. One side of his lip tipped up in a smirk.