Page 57 of Santa Baby

“You’re rather chipper for someone who’s being plastered on the news as a slimy businessman, accused of cutting corners.” He seethed, his hands balled into fists.

I looked him up and down. Dad looked furious, slightly unkempt, like he’d been wallowing over this for days. But Dad didn’t care about my business. There was only one thing he cared about. Just a few weeks ago I’d been groveling for his approval, going as far as to rope an innocent woman into masquerading as my girlfriend to try to prove that I cared about this family, our reputation, our name.

“I’m not being blasted in the news. It’s the opposite. Sales barely dipped during the recall of the whiskey. In fact, we’re seeing record numbers on our clear spirit lines, not that it’s any of your business.” I stood and walked steadily toward the built-in bookshelf along the far wall and poured myself another dram of whiskey, neat. The good stuff. One of the bottles from the first batch of whiskey I ever made in my dorm room, the same stuff I still brewed in the restaurant below that only got released on very, very special occasions. The color was remarkably like Fia’s eyes, which made me think of her. I smiled to myself as I turned to face my father, which only made him angrier.

“You’re an idiot. You are a stain on the family name⁠—”

“Our family were poor, uneducated Scots who immigrated here with barely a dollar to their name.”

“I made a name for us,” he reminded me coldly. “And you ruined it.”

“I built an empire⁠—”

“On your grandmother’s back.” He sneered, red in the face. “She’s rolling in her grave right now, I’m sure, knowing what I know. Contamination, Mason? How careless have you become?”

“Careless?” I choked back a laugh, gripping my glass so tightly I swore I felt the crystal crack. “I haven’t slept in days. I’ve been cleaning up a mess that I took the fall for. What would you have me do, Dad? Fire my employees at the distillery? Go on a public rampage and talk ill about the supplier of the barrels I purchased because our usual supplier couldn’t meet demand during the quarter? Throw everyone but myself under the bus?”

“You could have done something other than go on TV and make it sound like you were the problem. Our name⁠—”

“Who do you think we are?” Silence swelled for an aching, drawn-out moment. Only the heaving of Dad’s breath cut through the oppressive yoke of tension in the room. When he didn’t reply, I pushed the subject, taking a step in his direction. “I actually want to know. Who do you think we are? What makes us special compared to the circles you run in? We’re not Lennoxes, or Astors, or Kennedys.”

“I know what I am,” he growled. “I expected better from you. Your entire life, I’ve expected better. I gave you everything, Mason. I paved a path for you to follow⁠—”

“Is this because I chose Columbia over Yale?” I knew it wasn’t, but I had to start somewhere. He had come here for a fight and I would give him one against my better judgment. My absolutely exhausted, starving judgment.

He glared at me. “You knew how much going to Yale meant to me and your mother.”

“Mom didn’t care. She was happy I was staying closer to home, in the city. You know that.”

He shook his head. “We have traditions, whether you like it or not.”

“Grandpa marrying an heiress, you mean?”

Blood-red rage shone behind his eyes.

I smiled cruelly, too numb to watch my words, and spoke out of hot, untethered anger and frustration when I said, “This is about the recipe. It always has been. Your disdain for me started when Grandma died. It’s been fifteen years, Dad. Just say it.”

“It should have gone to me. If she’d known what you’d do with, where you’d end up—” He motioned to the room as if I had boxes of recalled whiskey stacked in crates, covering every surface. “She would have never given it to you.”

“That was her decision, not mine.”

“It was meant to be kept safe. A secret.”

“And it is still a secret⁠—”

“You’ve ruined it. Our family legacy. You single-handedly pitched us into the dark ages, Mason. Careless and stupid.” He waved a hand in dismissal, scoffing. “Contaminating the whiskey? Our family’s whiskey?”

“This is my company, not yours,” I said.

“That recipe doesn’t just belong to you.”

“It does.” I held his gaze, teeth bared, biting down on each word. “Do you know what she told me on her death bed? The very second she slipped that aged, weathered piece of paper in my hand? She told me to do something with it. To make something of it. And not to let her down. I didn’t.”

He shook his head. “You built an empire, Mason. I can give you that. But I’m watching the bricks crack as we speak. What’s next? You run off and marry that plain, poor girl you picked up somewhere across the bridges?”

Too far. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me. Is this some scheme to piss me off even more? We’ve introduced you to several well-bred⁠—”