Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Trying to approach Adrian before he approached me was an even bigger one.
But I couldn’t wait. I had to find out if he and Sydney were—are—together, and I tried to be discreet.
I smiled through the sullen introductions to his friends, whose names I forgot instantly, and casually asked if I could “borrow him for a minute,” like we were colleagues who needed to discuss business, not family. Most twenty-two-year-olds have outgrown being embarrassed by their parents, but it goes so much deeper than embarrassment with Adrian.
That’s at least partly my fault. I should have tried harder, sooner to mend the rift between us.
So, I tried my best to be patient as he clapped me on the back and said, “I’ll find you after the show, Phil. If you’re still around. Otherwise, we can catch up another time.”
Phil. Phil is my father’s name. Yes, it reads Phillip Gideon Gabaldon II on my birth certificate, but I’ve been Gideon since the day I was born. Only strangers and Adrian call me Phil. Strangers because they don’t know any better; Adrian because he has a knack for knowing how to get under my skin.
It makes me wonder what he’d say if he knew I’d slept with Sydney before he did. My guess is he would either be horrified and end things immediately or thrilled to have something to rub in my face.
But of course, I can’t say anything.
I won’t.
I wouldn’t do that to my son…or to Sydney. If she has feelings for Adrian, if they’re involved, it’s not my place to get between them, no matter how much it hurts to imagine them together.
Or how certain I am that my son doesn’t deserve her.
Maybe someday Adrian will grow into a person who can stand on equal footing with a woman like Sydney, but right now he’s miles behind her in almost every way, including maturity and compassion. A fact he proves when I ask—almost beg—a second time for a few words, and he tells me, “Shoot me a text, and I’ll get back to you when I have the chance.”
A text.
A fucking text, after I rearranged my business trip to coincide with his launch, paid for half the catering, and put in a good word with the hotel owner, an old friend of mine, to get Adrian an excellent deal on the event space.
As I charge back through the party, I’m angrier than I can remember being in years, but not at Adrian.
I’m angry with Angela for poisoning my son’s mind against me, and I’m angry with myself. I’ve enabled this behavior. I’ve been so afraid that Adrian would cut the final cord between us that I’ve allowed him to treat me in ways I wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else on earth. I’ve helped teach him that it’s okay to be cruel.
But that stops now.
Whether he likes it or not, we will be having a talk while I’m here, and I’m going to make it clear the status quo needs to change. Now. He doesn’t have to fake affection he clearly doesn’t feel for me, but from now on, respect and a certain degree of civility will be mandatory.
I’m also going to find out if things are serious between him and Sydney while we’re chatting and make it abundantly clear that he’d better treat her like a queen.
Great idea, the raw voice in my head seethes, Maybe he’ll treat her so well, she’ll end up at your table next time Adrian agrees to let you host Thanksgiving. Or, better yet, she might be your daughter-in-law and mother of your grandbabies someday.
The thought sends acid surging up the back of my throat.
On my way past an art installation composed of half-nude people painted metallic colors, writhing together on a slowly rotating podium, I grab a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray. So far, I’ve seen five bars, a beer hall manned by actors dressed as hobbit-type creatures, and dozens of waiters offering champagne and Jell-O shots. Adrian’s done his best to ensure no one leaves this party sober.
Well, except me.
I can’t stay and risk running into Sydney. I’ll down this champagne on my way out, head to my apartment building, and hit the treadmill at the twenty-four-hour gym. Maybe I’ll do a few weight circuits, too. I skipped leg day this morning to tie up some loose ends at the office before my flight, and my only chance of getting a decent night’s sleep is to physically exhaust myself.
Otherwise, I'll be up all night, rehearsing what I need to say to my son and fantasizing about all the things I can never say to Sydney.
Things like…
I can’t get you out of my head, no matter how hard I try.
And…
I feel like I’ve been missing you so much longer than a month.
And…
Don’t date him, butterfly. Date me.