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“I know. I’ll be there,” I said as I made a mental note to have Monica order a gift.
“Good.” He stood from his seat and made his way to the door, giving a wave without looking back as he slipped through it.
I knew he hadn’t come all this way to invite me to, or remind me of, my aunt’s party. He dropped in to see how things were going, get his usual report from Kathy, and probably judge my every decision. It was a monthly occurrence that I had annoyingly gotten used to. Yet, with Monica here, it felt more irritating than usual. Embarrassing. I was nearly forty and had Daddy checking in on me.
Once I was sure he was gone, I walked up to Monica’s desk and casually drummed my fingers on her desk. She looked up and gave me a small smile as her fingers continued to type on the keyboard.
“Sorry about that,” I whispered.
“About what?” she asked.
“My dad.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, he was harmless.”
Little did she know.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything,” she whispered and a sexy smile crossed over her lips, making me want to take her right then and there.
“Fuck.”
She laughed out loud and stifled it quickly with her hands as she looked around the office. No one had heard.
“What do you need?” she asked seriously.
“I need you to order a gift from Bloomingdales that I can pick up after work.”
“Okay. Anything in particular?”
“Something a seventy-year-old woman would like,” I said with a shrug.
She looked up at me curiously.
“It’s for my aunt. Her birthday party is tonight.”
I had half a mind to invite Monica to join me, but thought better of it. It was a family function, not a work event. She would be out of place and my father would see right through our little façade. Plus, there were no guarantees with a little champagne in me I would be able to keep my eyes or hands off her.
“I’m on it,” she said.
“Thanks.” I knocked on the surface of her desk before heading back to my office.
Later that night, I arrived at my parents’ upstate home, which was more of an estate than a house, holding a gift-wrapped box containing a cashmere sweater. I rang the doorbell and was ushered inside by the waitstaff who took my jacket and my gift. Jazz music wafted toward me from the large living room where my parents hosted most of their parties. I followed the erratic music and found the roomful of family and close friends.
I spotted my mother at the long buffet table inspecting the appetizers to make sure everything was to her liking. My father was in the center of the room telling some sort of animated story in his usual booming voice. I decided to greet my mother first, giving her a hug and two quick kisses on either cheek.
“Troy. Honey. So glad you could make it,” she said with a beaming smile.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Even though I almost had.
I watched my mother’s eyes drift to the bar that was set up in the back of the room by the open French doors. There was a twinkle to them that I wasn’t quite sure how to read.
“Why don’t you go get a drink.” She gestured to the bar with a nod.
I followed her gaze and saw the familiar strawberry-blonde hair and slender body of my ex-wife. She was shamelessly flirting with the bartender who was eating it up, just like everybody else. Who could blame him? She was aSports Illustratedmodel.