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He looks taken aback.
I allow myself a smile, but I don’t go to him or offer a handshake. There’s a reason my hands are in my pockets. Touching my father is one step too far for me. “Delilah gave me the good news. She also mentioned you wanted to talk schedules?”
“Yes, I do.”
I give a carefree, accommodating shrug. “No problem. Just get your campaign manager to liaise with my EA. I’ll make sure we work something out.”
His mouth goes slack for a second. Then he gives a brisk nod. “I appreciate it, son. I thought this would be yet another battle with you. Although I’m still far from thrilled about the Miami thing—”
“The Miami thing is done. There’s no going back. Unless you want to look weak?” I taunt.
Fury washes over his face but the seductive allure of power dilutes it. “Fine. But I want your undivided attention on this campaign when I need it.”
My gaze skates over his shoulder to fix on a skyscraper in the distance. “Of course. This is important to you. I get that,” I lie.
He pauses for a moment. Then, “Thank you, son.”
I look into his eyes and the words trip smoothly off my tongue. “Not at all. Your second term as Governor of New York will be a memorable one for the Blackwood name. I’ll make sure of it.”
His sigh of relief echoes in my ear as I walk out and pass the generations of Blackwood portraits decorating the hallway.
The first one dates back to the Mayflower. My steps slow and I look up at the painting of Ichabod Blackwood. He wears the same arrogant pride I see on my father’s face. I smile at the portrait, revel in the stern admonishment in Ichabod’s gaze.
“Take a good look, old man. This train is never going to make it back to the station. Your line is going to end with me.”
I salute the portrait and walk out of my father’s house.