“I’ll be there.”
“Will you be riding with me?”
“No, I have a few things to do first. I’ll take the subway.”
He exhaled hard, the sound impatient. “You know how I feel about that, Lottie. I wish you would stop with that independent attitude and let me give you a car and driver.”
It was rare to see a glimpse of my father in the office. There we were Charles and Charlotte. Lottie was never used. Personal things were never discussed. The lines were clearly drawn. It was business, plain and simple. It didn’t matter that I was named after him or that I was his daughter. He was firm on his rules. I was used to it, and I made sure to follow them at all times. That was what was expected of a Prescott.
“I like to walk.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “And take the subway.”
I shrugged. “I like the people. I like watching them.”
“You can do that from the comfort of a town car.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “That smacks of being elitist.”
He smiled at me—a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Heaven forbid I sound elitist when it comes to the safety of my daughter.”
“I’m fine. I’m careful.”
“I still don’t like it.”
My stomach clenched at the thought of him insisting on the car. If that happened, the one thing that made my life bearable these days, the one bright spot, would be taken away. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Please drop it,” I begged, my throat tight with emotion. “Let me have this bit of freedom.”
He pulled open the door. “Fine. For now. But the subject isn’t closed.”
I picked up my files, following him out the door. “I never expected it to be.”Chapter 2LottieTime dragged. I watched the clock, its hands slowly counting down the seconds until I could leave. Everyone laughed at the old-fashioned battery-operated timepiece I kept on my desk. I liked the soothing sound of the soft movement of the hands as it ticked away the minutes. The quiet chimes it made every hour helped me through the days.
Finally, it was six. I slammed down the lid on my laptop, jamming it into my messenger bag. I made sure I had my pass, and I headed for the elevator. Before the doors closed, my father stepped in.
“Changed your mind? Are you coming with me?”
“Um, no. I’m heading home.”
A look of displeasure crossed his face. “Your mother…”
I interrupted the start of his lecture. “I’m coming for dinner. I have to go home first.”
His brow furrowed. “You live on the east side. We’re on the west. What is so important you have to go all the way across town?”
My heart started to hammer in my chest. I felt the back of my neck grow damp with anxiety. “I want to change, and ah, Brianna is calling.”
“What nonsense.”
“She needs to talk to me, Dad. I promised.”
“Fine. I’ll get the driver to take you.”
“No!” I almost shouted the word at him.
He stepped forward. “Charlotte, what is going on with you?”
“Nothing. I just… I need to do a few things. Dinner is never until 8:30. I have lots of time.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “And you insist on taking the subway?”
“I like the subway. I listen to music, and it gives me some downtime.”
“I don’t understand you. You’re distracted. I don’t like it.”
“I’m fine.” The doors opened, and I hastened ahead of him. “I’ll see you soon!”
He didn’t chase after me. I knew he wouldn’t. Charles Prescott would never make a scene in public. Still, I didn’t stop until I was around the corner. I stood against the wall, breathing heavily, forcing myself to calm down.
He was right, of course. It was stupid to travel across town to my own condo, then head to their place for dinner.
But if I didn’t, I would miss him.
I couldn’t let that happen.
He was the only thing I lived for these days.
Even if he didn’t know.I exited the train, my eyes scanning the area. I felt frantic tonight. The anxiety I’d been experiencing grew daily, and I was always tense until I saw him. Then my body would relax, my heartbeat slowed, and I felt better.
It happened every time.
I heard him first. The strains of his guitar met my ears, his music settling into my head, blanketing me with peace. I followed the sounds, finding him close to the benches as usual, playing. His head was lowered, shaggy brown hair falling into his face as he looked down at his hands. Streaks of white-blond mixed with the dark at the front, and I often wondered if it was bleached from time spent out in the sun. It gave him a bohemian look that suited him well. Casually propped against the wall, he was tall and broad, his chest tautly muscled under his well-worn leather jacket and tight T-shirt. His fingers were long and strong as he coaxed notes from a guitar so old, I was sure it was an antique. A battered case lay on the ground in front of him, coins thrown in by commuters glinting in the light. There were only a couple of paper bills among the collection, and I wondered, as I did every time I saw him, if he had collected enough to eat tonight. If he had somewhere to sleep.