Page 48 of Sealing the Deal

“Grayson,” she says reaching the bottom of the stairs and air-kissing my cheeks. “You look well.”

She steps back, her gaze sliding over Flic like she’s assessing a dress on a rack.

“And you must be Grayson’s new friend.” She pauses, then smiles politely. “How lovely.”

“Flic, this is my mother, Catherine.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashborne,” Flic replies, moving to stand beside me. At first, I think she’s looking for support. Then I realize she’s there to offer it, and I feel that gratitude stir again.

“Mother,” Helena says coolly, stepping to greet her.

My mother brightens. “Helena, darling. You look thin.”

“Thank you,” Helena replies sweetly, like our mother has just given her a compliment.

“Shall we?” my mother says before leading the way down the hall.

The removed indifference to her greeting shouldn’t still sting after all these years, but it does. I’ve seen the Sullivans at Oakwood Ranch. I’ve seen the belonging and love of that family, and this in comparison is a desolate wasteland.

We step through to the drawing room where a tray of champagne flutes is waiting. I hand a glass to Flic and take my own, but I won’t drink it. I can’t afford to loosen my hold on the evening even for a second. Especially not as my father enters the room. Tall and broad, with the belly and jowls of a man who likes good wine and good food.

“Grayson,” he says warmly, clasping my shoulder like he wasn’t staring me down across a boardroom just a few hours ago. “Denver suits you. You look well.”

His gaze lands briefly on Helena, who sips her champagne with Oscar-worthy indifference, before settling on Flic. “And you must be the woman helping Grayson with his latest purchase.” He takes Flic’s hand, holding it a moment longer than I’m comfortable with. “Felicity, isn’t it? A pleasure.”

Flic meets his eyes, calm and unflinching. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ashborne.”

My father laughs, as though amused and charmed by Flic. It’s an act, but beneath it, I’m sure he registers her confidence. She’s not cowering at his feet like so many people do. He’ll like that. “Call me Charles.”

My mother asks Helena about a charity auction she’s organizing and the pair launch into a detailed discussion of seating arrangements and donors. My father’s attention stays on Flic.

“And you own a bar?” he asks.

“I do,” Flic says, ignoring the undertone of disdain in my father’s tone. She’s proud of The Hay Barn and what she’s built, and it’s clear from the spark in her eyes she doesn’t give a damn if Charles is impressed or not. “It’s a fans bar. Big screen, beer from a tap. Country music.”

Casually, like he’s offering a compliment, he says: “My son does like to collect beautiful things.”

I tense. Every muscle taut. Helena and my mother fall silent. The room seems to still as though waiting to see how I’ll react. It takes everything in me to keep my expression as indifferent as Helena’s. To act like anything my father says or thinks about this woman makes no difference to me. Inside, I’m seconds away from putting him on the ground.

Flic doesn’t rush her response. She lifts her glass, takes a sip of champagne, then sets it down. “I’m not part of any collection, Charles. Grayson and I are business partners. I’m using him to get what I want, and then I’ll move on, as will he.”

My father laughs. “How entrepreneurial of you.” And this time he does sound impressed.

The conversation drifts to the country club my mother has belonged to since before Helena and I were born. She updates us on the gossip of people I don’t know and don’t care about. Slowly, I let out a breath. Of course Flic stood her ground. Of course she didn’t bend or soften or apologize for being herself. She put my father neatly, unmistakably, in his place.

The dinner that follows is stilted and uncomfortable. Five courses it feels like all of us endure rather than enjoy. My mother excuses herself with a headache before dessert. Helena is quiet, and I’m certain she’s grateful our father’s attention is on me.

He waits until coffee is served before asking about Denver. “How’s your new sports venture going, Grayson?”

“It’s going well. We’re one more game away from the Super Bowl.” I catch Flic’s glance. Maybe she’s noticed it, too. I didn’t say “they.” For the first time, I said “we.” As though I’m part of the Stormhawks. It feels surprisingly right.

“Are you done toying with them yet?” he asks, not waiting for a reply before he turns to Flic: “I assume you’ve noticed that my son likes to play at being the savior before getting down to business. It’s smart. He waits for the press to move on before he slowly begins dismantling the businesses he buys. I never had the patience, but Denver is a city ready for—what do you call it at Grayson Global—rejuvenation?”

Flic’s eyes flick to me. How much is she buying this? Anger surges, hot and dangerous. The need to correct him claws at me. But I don’t cut in. Because that’s exactly what he wants me to do. Beneath the jovial tones, my father is testing me. He’s seeing how much I care about Denver. About the Stormhawks. About her. And I won’t give him the satisfaction or the knowledge he’s searching for.

“Something like that,” I reply, tone indifferent as I fight back my fury. My father moves on, launching into a story about a new car he’s bought—a limited-run Italian thing with a name I don’t bother remembering. The minute the coffee cups are cleared, I’m on my feet.

“Thank you for dinner, Father. Flic and I have an early flight back to Denver tomorrow.” I have the sudden urge to reach for Flic, to let her fingers slip easily into mine, but I keep my hands firmly by my sides instead, still unwilling to let my father see anything beyond business partners.