Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Cole’s expression doesn’t change, but he shrugs. It probably wouldn’t be enough of a confession for court, but it is for us. “It was Cole!” Kyle shouts back to Grandmom.
A second later, she appears with two small plates of pie and ice cream in her hands. “Well, he probably needed the sugar with the lack of sleep he’s functioning on. Here you go, baby.” Grandmom puts the bigger of the two slices down in front of Cole and gives the other one to Janey, placing a kiss to the top of each of their heads and then Emmett’s. “Raising babies isn’t for the faint of heart.”
Cole grins as he takes a big bite of his first-served pie, and Kyle makes a move like he’s going to swipe some of the precious dessert. Cole instantly switches his grip on his fork into a more threatening hold. “I dare you to try. I’ll stab you and not even get blood on the special Thanksgiving outfit Janey got Emmett.” I’m ninety-nine percent sure he not only means it but could make good on that promise.
“Fine. But I get the next slice,” Kyle declares.
We all laugh a little, but Grandmom does indeed give him the next slice.
Later, as we’ve retiring back to the formal living room, Dad approaches me. “Cameron, a word?”
I glance at Riley, but she’s following everyone easily, talking with Grace and Dani. I catch Cole’s eye and glance toward Riley, telling him he’s on guard. Not that I think she’d need any help, but I have no doubt the rest of my siblings are going to take advantage of the moment and share embarrassing stories about me with her. He blinks, which I decide to take as acceptance of the responsibility. Or at least I hope it is.
Upstairs in Dad’s office, I sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. I’ve spent hours of my life right here in this chair or its predecessor before Mom redecorated about twenty-five years ago. When I was a kid, I’d do schoolwork on the front edge of the desk while Dad worked on the other side, and the whole time, I’d pretend I was one of his business associates. I would even borrow his fancy silk ties and haphazardly loop them around my neck to emulate the way he would wear his after a long day at the office.
I wanted to be him, or at a minimum, be with him. Back then, he was an engaged Dad, helping me with homework, going to my practices and games, and even substitute coaching for my peewee basketball game one time. He was the best of both worlds—a father and a businessman—and I was the fortunate child who received that version of him.
My siblings did not, because slowly, over the years, Dad’s focus turned more and more to making Blue Lake Assets into the massive empire that it is now.
I know how all-encompassing of Dad’s heart, mind, and soul that process was—mostly because I worked at his side for a lot of it. I’ve seen firsthand what running a machine like Blue Lake takes and how many countless families are dependent on us for their investments to appreciate, their jobs to be stable, or their ideas to come to fruition. Angel investing isn’t as holy as it sounds, and it definitely takes more than thoughts and prayers at this scale and level.
Because I’ve seen the sacrifices Dad has made, I don’t begrudge the distance between us now the way my siblings seem to have always done. Honestly, I don’t know why the rest of them haven’t figured out how to smile and nod when Dad speaks, glean what you can from his hard-earned wisdom, and then simply do whatever the fuck you want. It’s worked for me for decades, both in and out of the boardroom, and in a way, I think he respects me more for it. And when he does get in an occasional mood, I brush him off and let him stew because whatever’s bothering him, he’ll figure it out. Because he figures shit out and makes things happen.
It's an example I’ve followed my whole life.
“The Timmons figures are better than we’d hoped,” I offer as he sits down in the chair beside me.
Not across from me? Okay, so maybe this isn’t business related.
But with Dad, everything is business in one way or another.
“Tell me about this Riley Stefano woman.”
“She’s Grace’s nanny.” I keep the answer clipped and succinct, not wanting to invite further discussion because I obviously recognize what Dad truly wants to know.
He frowns, and I have a glimpse into my future—the blond hair turning gray, the marionette lines growing deeper, and the blue eyes still sharp as ever. “Don’t be coy. What’s going on? Miranda told me she went with them to lunch, and then she’s here for Thanksgiving. You’re inserting her like she’s a part of the family, not house staff.”