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“Why didn’t you name Von the next heir to Everton when I left?” I say without preamble.
Dad slowly lowers the paper. “Excuse me?”
“You threatened to oust me from the business but you didn’t. I asked you once already—now I’m asking you again.”
Very slowly and meticulously, Dad begins to fold up the newspaper. “I do recall our discussion before the anniversary gala, Caden, as I recall all discussions I have had concerning the company. I would caution you to adjust your tone.”
“Or what?” I scoff. “You’ll take away my inheritance? You forget yourself, Dad. You don’t control me anymore. I don’t need your fucking money.”
“You used it to buy that…machine outside,” Dad says disdainfully.
“The Ducati?” I say. “Here.”
I take out the keys and toss them at him. Dad’s reflexes are surprisingly sharp, and he catches them.
“You can have it. I don’t want anything from you. I only ever wanted you to be my father. To treat me like a son.”
Dad’s dark eyes widen. “I have always treated you as my son.”
“You treated me like your employee,” I snap. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”
Dad studies me carefully. “I wouldn’t think it would matter to you who inherits the company,” he says. “Since you are no longer a part of it, as you keep insisting.”
I clench my teeth. He’ll never give me a straight answer. I don’t know why I bother talking to him at all. “Fine,” I say, and turn on my heel.
“I suppose you no longer wish to present your sustainability idea to the board then,” Dad says.
I stop in my tracks. “What?” I ask, turning back to him.
“The meeting is set for Wednesday, at the office. I can cancel it.” He takes out his phone.
“No,” I say. “Wait.”
Goddamn him. Goddamn him for knowing there’s one thing that he can still hold over me. Not money, not my inheritance, but my dream for the future of the winery. And I’ve done all this work coming up with a solid business plan.
It’s a plan that would make my mother proud.
My throat tightens and my eyes burn.
“Fine,” I say again, but there’s no bite to it this time. “Wednesday.”
I stalk out of the room.
A couple of days later, I’m at the garage working on Isla’s booth for Magnolia Day.
It’s only two weeks away—when did that happen? When did July slip into August? When did time start to move so quickly? My time in town is drawing to a close.
I’m still waiting to hear from Noah about Carl’s new alibi, Isla has shut me out completely, and I spent hours yesterday on the phone with Sebastian, talking through my presentation to my father and the board. It feels like so much has happened since I’ve come back.
Now that I’ve acknowledged out loud that I’m in love with Isla, it’s all I can think about. I want her back and I’ve lost heragainand it’s a constant, endless cycle in my mind. Sometimes I consider showing up at her house and begging her to forgive me, but I think that would have the opposite effect. I was such an asshole to her at the end of our conversation, I can’t blame her for not wanting to see me ever again. So instead, I take my frustration out on the dresser I’m sanding.
“Easy there, tiger,” Reggie says, coming over with a steaming mug of coffee. “You’re here early.”
“Gotta get this done,” I say. Isla’s is the last booth I have to finish. I need to make it perfect for her. I need to do something right.
My phone rings and it’s Noah. I almost drop it in my haste to answer. “Please tell me you have good news,” I say.
“Carl’s second alibi checks out,” Noah says and my heart sinks. “I talked to the bartender. Carl skipped out on his tab—probably why he used his wife as an alibi instead. The bartender remembered all these years later because he had to eat the cost of the bill. Still had the receipt. And Carl passed out in front of a church. I talked to the minister who found him at six o’clock that morning. The minister said he remembers that day because he added a prayer for Marion to the service.”