Page 7 of Fierce Storm
“Okay. But you’re not allowed to help. This is something I have to figure out for myself.”
My lips thin in contemplation and Paige notices, raising an eyebrow until I agree. “Fine. But you know I hate when you ask me to stay out of it.”
“I do.” She grins not so innocently. “And if you must know, Easton wants me to consider publicly showing my art.”
“That’s great—” My eyes light up until Paige shakes her head with a frown. “That’s great…coffee over there. Have you tried it?”
Her eyes roll toward the ceiling at my attempt to change my response, before she sighs. “I know he means well. But it’s a big deal, Dad. One I’m not sure I’m ready for.”
“What about…” I trail off when she tilts her head, her eyes pleading with menotto get involved. And God, it’s a struggle. “What about you have some breakfast while we’re here?” I once again change the topic, blowing out a breath when Paige smiles in thanks.
“Maybe I will. If you’re paying.”
“Deal.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Anytime. You know that, Kid.”
She nods, her appreciative smile confirming that she’s aware I’m not talking about breakfast. I’d do anything for her, if only she’d let me.
My afternoon is significantly less chaotic than the coffee shop was, and I’m grateful for the peace. Yet, it’s now eight p.m. and I’m still in my office. Just like every other night.
You’d think I was avoiding my apartment. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s an exact argument I had with my ex over and over. “Are you spending all your time in the office because you don’t want to be here? You don’t want to spend time with me and the kids. Is that it?”
It wasn’t.
I always made Camilla out to be the bad guy, making her feel like she was the one causing issues in our relationship. That it washerfault. All because I refused to accept responsibility. To accept the truth. The truth being that I’m a workaholic. And I mean that in the sense of being addicted to working. If I miss a day for whatever reason, I get anxious. It’s a huge problem that I didn’t see until it was too late.
But I’m working on it. At least, I’m trying.
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my ankles beside my desk, angling my body so I can stare out the window. Through the darkness, I can just make out the lightning bolt logo on the field, and a small smile tugs at my lips. I own this fucking team. I own the San Francisco Storm.
I made my ten-year-old self’s dream come true, and I’m goddamn proud of that.
Sure, I’ve aged dramatically since deciding I could do thisandkeep my business running in New York. I’ve also never felt younger.
Or happier.
I’ve got Paige back in my life, my beautiful grandson, and?—
A loud clang breaks into my thoughts and I pause, listening out for a follow-up noise.
When it happens again, I’m out of my chair so fast, I cover the distance to my door in record time, throwing it open as my muscles tense.
“What’s— Keeley? Are you okay?” She startles at the sound of my voice, spinning to face me, her perfectly manicured eyebrows arched in annoyance.
“I’m fine. Or at least, I’d be fine if this stupid door didn’t jam all the time.” She blows out a breath, and I watch her glossed lips until she sucks them into her mouth.
“Do you need help?” My gaze shifts back to her eyes.
“No. I’ve got it.” She pushes the door open and flattens her palm against the frame, yanking the door so hard that the lock clicks into place. “Finally. See?”
She turns to face me again, a satisfied light brightening her eyes, and I couldn’t stop my smile if I tried.
“I never doubted you for a second.” I raise my hands in innocence, and her gentle laughter fills the air, filling me with warmth like it always does.
Keeley’s another big contributor to my happiness. She’s been a godsend since we met on my first day, and I don’t know what I’d do without her. I’m praying I never have to find out.
