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A father who put his daughter's welfare above his, even under duress. I'm not familiar with the concept.
"Shit. So let's go," I say, and my immediate response shocks me. Let's go? What the hell does that mean? I owe her nothing. Why am I leaving an important dinner I wanted so badly to attend for my assistant and her sick father? I barely know the guy.
Hazel tilts her head to the side and looks at me as a mom does a child before they're about to check their temperature. "Oh. You don't have to go. I can explain, and you can stay?—"
"How do you think it'll look if I stay here while my date's dad is in the ER?"
The second the words leave my mouth, I hear how douchey they sound. Then a familiar sense of relief pours over me. I’m comfortable being distant and cold. Those two traits have served me well in life. Why try to act like I’m decent? I'd rather come clean initially than pretend to be this guy who does grand gestures for a woman he barely knows, and then what? Then she'll get to know the real me. And she'll leave. Why wouldn't she?
Best to keep things simple from the start—making out with her was a mistake. I can't keep digging further.
She looks at me, unfazed. "We don't have to tell them he's in the ER. You can say something else."
I appreciate her giving me an out, but I can't let her leave alone. "It wouldn't be right. I'm taking you to the ER."
She shrugs before turning to walk away. "You don't have to. I can call an Uber."
With a couple of steps, I catch up to her. "No arguing. Come on."
I stretch out my hand to her, and we walk back into the party. Seeing Malcolm, I make a beeline to explain before we bounce. I walk hand in hand with Hazel in a display of affection I usually avoid in public. Now, it doesn't mean much since we're supposed to be on a date anyway, and I remind myself that I'm only doing this so we can get out of here faster. Practicality, and nothing else.
"Hey, man, I apologize, but Hazel's dad is in the hospital with some abdominal pain, and we need to leave."
"Oh, no. I'm sorry. I hope he feels better," Malcolm says. He turns to Hazel and adds, "Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all. Archer has my number. "
I curl my free hand into a fist. There's no chance in hell I'll give his number to Hazel. I'd like to give him a black eye, but there's no time for foolishness. We leave the party rather quickly, and I drive well past the speed limit on the highway to the hospital.
"I hope Dad's okay," Hazel says, and I detect concern in her voice.
"He will be. He's being taken care of right now," I say after I send a sideways glance her way. "Are you worried about something specific?"
"He's had high cholesterol for a while. And mild depression that he tries to mask with cheesy jokes. That became a thing after Mom died." She leans her head against the window, rubbing her temples. "My dad is a good man but stubborn. He tries hard to be positive."
I grasp the steering wheel, itching to reach for her hand. I mentally slap some sense into myself. As sad as her story is, I can't go all soft. This isn't about me, anyway. "He has the right attitude, it seems."
She crosses her arms over her chest, and I feel her gaze on me. "Really? Never thought I'd hear something like that from you."
I clear my throat. She'd be right. I'm an expert at many things, but comforting has never been one of them. An inherent trait of my maternal grandmother. "I'm a realist, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate positivity in others."
"Like when I was humming a song once, and you told me to shut up because that ruined your morning?"
A twinge of guilt twists in my chest. "I needed to focus. Was nothing personal."
"Or when you told me not to eat chips at my desk."
"That wasn't professional."
"How about fingering me at a dinner party? Was that professional?"
A wave of shame rolls through me, heating me up inside. Not the same heat I felt earlier with her. I take the exit lane and leave the main highway, merging into a frontage road. I see the hospital sign to the right.
"That won't happen again," I say, my voice clipped. "I apologize. I got carried away. Do you feel wronged?" I ask, and we both know what I mean. Not only because she was cut short right before she had an orgasm but because I'm her boss, and I goaded her into coming to a social function and mauled her in the garden.
"Funnily enough, not from the make-out session. But I get what you're asking. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I've already forgotten."
Already forgotten? A Steinway piano sits on my chest.
I'm not the sensitive type, but the fact that she's so nonchalant about the way we kissed bugs me more than it should. I've kissed and fucked a lot of women in my life. Sometimes, two at the same time. What we shared felt different. It wasn't just arousal—I'm familiar with that.
