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“Whoa, whoa, Beckham. There’s no need to react emotionally in all this and call off a deal. I’m sure we can get it figured out on my end.”
“You better. And so you know, Jonas is aware of the situation. He has no idea what the error is either, but you can bet your ass that if he finds out who fucked up, they’re gone.”
“You spoke with Jonas?” I can hear the tension in his voice.
“Of course.”
“And he didn’t know anything about it?” He pauses. “Interesting.”
“What are you insinuating, Jack?” I don’t like the direction this conversation is going.
“I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Archer, but I can tell you that I know my people and they wouldn’t be skimming from the books. We aren’t the only ones with access to those accounts; parent companies have access as well.”
“I don’t like to beat around the bush, Jack. In fact, I’m a pretty straightforward man, so let me put it to you this way. I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s you or Jonas himself who is robbing your employees of their retirement. I’ll find out who it is, and I’ll not only have their job, but they’ll never work in this industry again, and you can be damn sure they’ll face federal charges. So do us both a favor and get your ducks in a fucking row or I walk.”
I hit the button to end the call, really missing a good old-fashioned desk phone receiver that could be slammed down for theatrical effect.
I tap my foot nervously against the inside of my desk. It’s pushing six so Brontë is already gone, I’m sure. I owe her an apology. This is the second time I’ve snapped at her with no explanation and taken out my anger on her.
I walk out of my office, toward her desk, but it’s already empty. I glance at my watch again, double checking the time. I turn to walk back to my office when the elevator door dings. When the door opens, a tall, rather bony man steps out, his gray tux almost hanging from his body.
Miles Davenport, Venus’ father.
“Miles, what can I do for you?” I ask, squaring my shoulders, my stance wide. I’m not inviting this prick into my office.
“You know why I’m here.”
I shrug. “No, I don’t actually.”
He takes a few steps forward, pointing his knobby finger at me. “Listen here, you little shit. I never liked you. You’re arrogant and you’re nothing but trouble for my daughter. But you better do the right thing. You better step up and be a father to her baby.”
“Or what? Are you threatening me, Miles? You know,” I say, stepping forward as I look down at him. After the argument with Brontë and the talk with Jack, I am in no fucking mood. “You really don’t want to do that.”
“So you’re just going to be a deadbeat father, you asshole? I will ruin you! I will own this compa?—”
“This does not concern you, Miles, so get the fuck out of my office. If you want to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, start with your daughter. Go have a talk with her about who she’s been letting stick it in her.”
His hands ball into fists, his nostrils flaring, and I’m not sure if he’s about to have a stroke or attack me. I leave him like that, uninterested in talking about this.
When I get to my office, I slam the door and pick my phone back up, scrolling through it till I find Brontë’s name to give her a call, but I decide in person is probably better. I go back to my messages. There are no new texts from Venus.
The pit in my stomach slowly comes back. It’s not that I don’t plan on going to that ultrasound, I do. I just need time to calm down and mentally check out before I respond to her. Even though I know there’s no way I’ll find out if the baby is actually mine or not before next week, on the off chance that it is mine, I don’t want to regret missing out on these moments.
I let my mind wander to what it will be like as a father. Sunday afternoons playing ball in the park. A stroll down by the lake to look at the boats. My heart aches. Not because I don’t want those moments, but because for the first time in my life, I do, but not with Venus.
I picture Brontë carrying my child instead and the sour feeling slowly unfurls into excitement but is quickly stifled by guilt. This unborn baby didn’t ask to be born and I shouldn’t be miserable about it just because it’s not with the right woman. I try to think through how it could work with all of us. If I’m honest with Brontë, explain that Venus just showed up and told me about this and tell her that I want to make things work between her and me, would she try?
I tap my foot faster, thinking through the other side of it. What if she doesn’t want kids? What if the thought of being the stepmom to someone else’s baby, scared that Venus and I will someday find ourselves back in each other’s arms because it’s easier that way, is too much?
Brontë is barely twenty-five, just starting out in her career with huge goals of running her own nonprofit. She doesn’t need a middle-aged man saddled with an unexpected baby and an ex who still wants to work things out. The least I can do tonight is to go over to her place and apologize to her about earlier. I’m not sure dropping the Venus and baby bomb on her is right yet. Not until I know the truth about the paternity and not until she and I talk about what we are and where this is going.
I push all the negative thoughts from my head, shrugging on my suit coat and grabbing my phone off my desk to go make things right with her.
I try to ignore the fact that at the end of a long, stressful day, the only thing that calms me, the only thing that brings peace to my soul no matter the situation, is the thought of holding her in my arms… because that terrifies me more than anything.
Chapter 15
Brontë
