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“Did you get that one?” Javi asks.
I smile at my phone screen. “Of course.”
“You don’t miss much.”
“Neither do you.” I raise a brow and give him a look.
His smile is slow. “Let me know when you want to talk about the rookie.”
I snort at Javi calling Logan a rookie. “I won’t.”
I frown as my phone screen shows an incoming call. My dad. Ugh. I’ve been avoiding his calls for days now.
“And on that note,” Javi says, eyeing my phone with the tiniest wrinkle in his nose. “See you around, Ms. Parker.”
Javi has always insisted on the Ms. but never uses my last name. Probably because of how dismissive and rude my dad was the one time he and Javi happened to cross paths. My father, Don Douglas, tech giant and real estate mogul, would never give the time of day to a man with a job like Javi’s .
Thinking about that has me answering the phone in an irritated, “To what do I owe the honor of this phone call?”
There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “Hello, Parker. This is your father.”
I barely refrain from making a comment that will earn me a longer lecture. Only the sight of Logan, slapping the puck into the net past Felix has me smiling instead of snapping.
“What do you need, Dad?”
“Can’t I simply call my daughter to check in?”
“Of course you can. But you don’t. You get your updates from Mom and only call when you need something. So, what do you need?”
“Parker,” he says in a warning tone that still makes me want to cower. Even if now, I don’t.
My father isn’t a cruel man. Just overbearing and demanding, running our household like a business, doling out commands and expecting our immediate compliance.
Mom mostly doesn’t mind going along with him. So long as he doesn’t stop her from heading up dozens of committees focused on charity work. She’s smart and kind—but her loyalty and blinding love toward my father is her fatal flaw.
I’m proud of what she does—mainly getting wealthy people to write big checks to worthy causes—even if she’s disappointed, I don’t want to do the same. Or work for Dad like Brandon does. Mom doesn’t guilt trip me or get passive aggressive—it’s not her style. But I just know she’d love for me to be more connected with our family, the business, or with charitable work.
My brother toes the party line most of the time, though he holds no illusions and even less respect for our father. If Brandon wants to take over EverTech one day—which he definitely does—he has to play my father’s game. Thankfully, he is not as much like our father in terms of personality, even if he shares Dad’s sharp intellect and business acumen.
And me? I’m the black sheep who went to a liberal arts college, majored in communication, and gave up living with my parents’ financial favors and support in order to take a job I love while existing on a diet of ramen.
Zero regrets.
“I wanted you to know I found you a date for the gala,” Dad says, like he’s telling me he had the tires rotated on my car. Or as though Iaskedhim to find me a date.
To be clear—I did NOT ask for that. And my mechanic friend, Hazel, rotated my tires just last month. So, I’m all good there too.
“I told you already—I don’t need you to find me a date for yourgala,” I say.
Our dad is hosting his own birthday party in a few days. But because it’s my dad, this isn’t just any birthday party. It’s a GALA. Though, considering my mom is at the helm of the planning, itwillbe more of a gala than a normal birthday party. Mom found a way to tie it to a charity, which will mean silent auctions and a fundraising speech from someone who will praise my father for using his name for a good cause.
Dad has already made it very clear my attendance and my acquiescence playing the doting daughter is vitally important. So important, in fact, that he’s been angling to pick out a date for me.
And I’ve been putting him off, vaguely hinting about having a date already—even though I absolutely have no date and no prospects. I’m hoping one might magically appear in time to save me from whomever my dad is picking out.
Since college, I’ve made every effort to wiggle out from underneath my dad’s thumb. No way am I willingly crawling back under by letting him dictate my life—especially not mydatinglife. More than once, Dad has told me he wants me to “find a nice man” (read: a rich dude with something to bring to the table) and “settle down” (aka: stop playing at my “silly” job) and pop out a bunch of Douglas nepo babies.
GROSS!
