Daddy's Day Read online

  It’s hard not to just grab him by his perfectly shaped face and either slap him or kiss him.

  Fuck, at this point, both would do.

  “He’s doing about as well as expected. He misses her…more than I can adequately describe with words.”

  There’s so much sadness in his voice that it breaks my heart. Regardless of the mixed emotions that I’m feeling from seeing him again after all these years, I feel for him and his father.

  “Well, it’s good he has you here then. As great as it is to see you home, I wish it was under better circumstances,” Eric says with a somber tone of his own.

  “And we’re here if you need anything at all, Pickle,” Jessie adds with sympathetic smile.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  Dylan’s eyes shift to look over at me, and I feel a cold shiver down my spine.

  “I’ve got to run back to my class before they all walk out on me or worse.”

  My words are completely unconvincing to me, so I can only imagine just how unconvincing I sound to them.

  Thankfully, none of them—especially Dylan—say anything. Jessie just gives me a quick hug, and I leave the three of them to talk among themselves.

  As close as Meredith and I were—she really was like a second mother to me—I’m not certain I can handle this funeral now.

  Seeing Dylan now after all these years hits me harder than expected, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to handle being around him when I’m going to be ten times rawer emotionally.

  As horrible as it sounds, I wish he had come back disfigured or morbidly obese—just something to ruin him in my eyes.

  But no, he has come back looking better than any man I’ve met or fantasized about.

  Chapter 5

  Dylan

  It’s barely past noon, and today has already been the longest day of my life.

  I knew this day would come sooner or later, but I’ve always thought I’d have some kind of heads-up.

  I’ve always thought—hoped—that I’d have a chance to say goodbye and to tell her how blessed I was to have her as my mother.

  But that’s the thing about heart attacks—sometimes you just never see them coming.

  “It sure is great to see you again, Dylan.”

  I force another smile as I shake another hand.

  This one belongs to Thomas Williams, one of my parents’ oldest friends. Thomas and my father played football together in high school.

  While my father looks ten years younger than he is, Thomas looks exactly his age. His hair has grayed, and wrinkles line his eyes and forehead. He’s still in good shape for a man his age, but that is likely due to the landscaping business he’s been running for years.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How long are you going to stay with us?”

  “Oh, not long. I have a lot of work back in New York waiting for me.”

  “You sound like your old man…always neck-deep in work.”

  “Well, these cases aren’t going to win themselves.”

  “That’s true. Just like all those games you won back in high school.”

  Fuck, here it comes—again.

  “You guys went undefeated all those years. You were the only freshman to ever replace a senior as starting quarterback and keep that position all four years.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  Thomas goes on about my high school football record, and I cease to listen.

  My eyes fall to the glass of scotch in my hands. It’s not the Mortlach that Dad and I opened the other day, but it’s not bad stuff, either.

  I try to find that eerie calm that I found before when I looked into the glass of Mortlach 1939, but it eludes me.

  “You were really something back then, kid. Nobody has come close since.”

  I look back up to Thomas with another forced smile.

  “Well, given my lineage, it’ll take another Andrews to come along and beat my records.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Thomas laughs and holds his glass up in a toast. I raise mine in a lazy gesture and take a drink of the Dalmore 18, which almost everyone is drinking.

  The Dalmore 18 had been my mother’s favorite Scotch whisky. She loved the dark chocolate, candied citrus, and sharp coffee taste.

  It was the first drink I ever had with my parents on my sixteenth birthday.

  It was Brooke’s, too.

  Just the thought of her has a heavy sigh slipping past my lips and into my tilted glass.

  The wake was hard enough. Every time I turned around, she was there. And every time our eyes met, I wanted to scoop her up in my arms and kiss her like I did when I had just won my first State Championship.

  Today hasn’t been much better. Time and time again, I keep finding myself looking over at her and her father.

  Things would have been so much easier had I shown up and she was married or involved with someone—or if she wasn’t the fucking image of perfection that she is.

  From the moment we crossed paths at the rally, she’s been on my mind.

  “Mr. Williams, would you excuse me?”

  “Of course. And it’s good to see you again, Dylan. You were missed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I politely shake the man’s hand and head towards the kitchen.

  Every couple of steps, I’m stopped by someone who wants to offer their condolences, welcome me home, and tell me that I was missed or bring up my days as a football player.

  I’m about ready to crush my glass in my hands from it all.

  I’m relieved to find nobody in the kitchen but Eric, but that’s not really all that surprising.

  “Glad to see someone is enjoying the free food,” I joke with a genuine smile pulling at the corners of my lips.

  “What can I say? I miss Rosa’s cooking.”

  As if to drive his point home, Eric slides two sandwiches into his mouth and finishes them in three big bites.

  “I’ll admit. That’s one of the things I wish I had up in New York.”

  “I imagine there’s something else, or rather someone else, you wish you had up there too.”

  Eric smirks knowingly, but I’m not impressed.

  I down the rest of my scotch and sit down on one of the stools around the island.

  My glass clinks against the marble counter top, and my fingers pull a couple carrots from the veggie tray that Rosa has made.

  “Let’s not go there—not today. Besides, that ship sailed fifteen years ago, and it’s not coming back to port.”

  “If you say so.”

  I’m certain this isn’t the last I’ll hear from him about the subject, but Eric knows not to push, especially today of all days.

  “Where’s Jess?”

  “Oh, she’s around. Probably talking shop with a handful of the other vineyard owners. Where’s your dad?”

  “Pops is out by the pool area with Wyatt Trevino and Lucas Wright.”

  “You’d think your dad would take a day off on a day like today.”

  “It’s how he copes. If he wants to talk shop with his accountants and lawyers, let him. He’s a grown man.”

  Eric sets down his sandwich and raises his eyebrow at me.

  “What is it, Eric?”

  “You, man. I get today is a rough day, but are you okay? You sound…bitter.”

  Sometimes I forget just how good Eric is at reading people. Even when we played ball in school, he could tell what the defensive line on the other team was thinking.

  I admit that I’m not all that hard to read today, though. I’ve been putting forth only a token effort to hide my frustrations.

  “So, spit it out. What’s on your mind, Pickle?”

  “Honestly, Mac, it’s all these people going on and on about my football days in high school. Don’t get me wrong…I’m damn proud of what I did in high school and Harvard. But these people know more about my stats than I do.”

  “This is Texas, buddy. Football is a religion here.”


  “Yeah, which is one of the reasons why I left. You know, I haven’t picked up a pig skin since leaving Harvard.”

  Eric shrugs, but I know he gets it. Like me, he was a football prodigy, and it got him a full ride to UCLA—where we faced each other a handful of times over the years. He got all the praise back then just like I did too, but, as the quarterback, the spotlight was always on me—more so because of my pedigree.

  I grab one of the open bottles of the Dalmore and pour myself another glass.

  “Look, go take a walk…disappear for a bit. I’ll cover for ya.”

  I raise my glass in appreciation, “Thanks, Mac.”

  I use the kitchen door to step out onto the back patio and just walk to wherever my legs decide to take me.

  It comes as no surprise that I end up in my mother’s garden on the other end of the house. But what does surprise me is that I’m not alone—though I really shouldn’t be.

  Brooke turns to face me as I approach the bed of tulips and offers a small smile.

  I’m completely enraptured by the woman.

  Her black hair shines in the sun like a star-filled night sky. Her black sundress is conservative and tasteful, but it does nothing to hide the curves of her toned figure. And her blue eyes shine like sapphires in the light of the sun.

  I want to say that she looks stunning and majestic, but they don’t feel adequate enough to describe just how beautiful she is.

  “I can leave if you want some time alone,” Brooke says shyly.

  “No, please. Stay.”

  The words spill out as if someone else has been speaking for me, but the sentiment is sincere nonetheless.

  “I remember when your mother planted these,” she says with fondness and a bright smile.

  To see her smile brings one to my own lips.

  “It was so big at first that Mom was able to put tulips in every room of the house. Pops told her to either cut back on the tulips or to plant some other flowers. But she stood her ground and told him to deal with it.”

  We both chuckle.

  It’s comforting to hear her laugh.

  “How is your dad, anyway?”

  “He’s still not sleeping much. And when he does sleep, he uses one of the guest rooms. He can’t bring himself to sleep in their bed just yet. He says it still smells like her.”

  “Are you sleeping at all?”

  “Me? Not really, but that’s nothing new for me. I’m always going from one case to another. Most nights, I just sleep on my couch in my office.”

  If there’s one thing I learned after university, it’s that it takes a lot of dedication and sleepless nights to be the best in my field.

  “It sounds lonely.”

  There’s something in her voice, something that I can’t quite explain that has me looking inward at my life.

  My eyes turn to my glass of whiskey. The dark amber-colored booze is sloshing gently against the sides of the glass like a gentle wave against the shore.

  Perhaps my life isn’t what I thought it would be—or is.

  “Maybe it is, but it takes a lot to be the best. New York is pretty cutthroat.”

  When I look up again, Brooke has unexpectedly closed the gap between us.

  Her hand reaches out and slides up over my arm to my shoulder.

  What comes next hits me like a three-hundred-pound linebacker running full tilt—she wraps her arms around me and hugs me.

  Without so much of a second thought, I slip my arms around her in turn and pull her tightly against my body.

  I take in her scent and smile fondly. She still smells like jasmine and orange blossoms.

  “You were missed,” she murmurs into my chest.

  Even though I’ve been hearing that since the day I arrived, it’s different this time around.

  Not only is it Brooke saying these words, but I know she’s telling me something more. I know that she’s telling me that she missed me.

  Chapter 6

  Brooke

  “Scotch?” Freddie asks with surprise and a raised brow.

  I can understand the man’s confusion. In the year that Freddie has worked here for Jessie and Eric, he’s never seen me order anything but beer.

  “That’s what I said. It’s what I feel like, for some reason.”

  “Anything in particular tickle your fancy?”

  “Jessie and Eric keep a bottle of Dalmore 18 under the bar.”

  Freddie’s blond head disappears under the bar as he starts searching for the bottle of Scotch whisky.

  When his head pops back up, he’s nearly halfway down the bar.

  “Found it.”

  “Good. Now hurry up and pour me a glass,” I say through a laugh.

  Freddie gives me a two-finger salute and gets my order right away.

  As he fumbles with the glasses, I take a look around the half-empty bar.

  The Touchdown has no less than a dozen plasma screen TVs on at any given time.

  Sometimes they’re all playing the same game—like whenever the Cowboys and Texans are playing anywhere—and sometimes each screen is playing a different event—all lovingly curated by the head bartender on duty. This is one sports bar that takes that designation seriously, and I know for a fact that finding the exact right games at any given time is a large part of the training to work here.

  This is one of those nights that each screen at The Touchdown has a different game, and since none of them involve the Cowboys or the Texans, they’re all on mute. The Willie’s Classic Country SiriusXM station is playing through the speakers in place of the usual football game noise.

  “What a fucking day, huh?”

  I spin around on my barstool at the sound of Jessie’s voice to face her, an inspired smile on my face as I do.

  “It’s been a day, but I’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

  Jess is also smiling as she listens to me gripe, but her expression is a little more subdued, which is more appropriate, given the last few days.

  I’m just so fucking confused to the point I’m not even sure how to act, and Jessie gets it. She always has.

  Maybe now I can actually explain it to her.

  “Thanks for showing up, Jess.”

  “Hey, I’m always just a text message away, you know that.”

  I nod, feeling my smile drop with the gravity of everything right now. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror as Jessie sympathetically takes on a more serious expression herself.

  “Would you like to take a seat?”

  “Considering I own it, sure,” Jessie deadpans.

  Hearing the click of Freddie setting the whisky glass down on the bar behind me, I spin back around and immediately grab a coaster to put under my scotch.

  Looking down at the ocher liquid in the glass, I hear a plaintive exhalation. I know it’s just the sound of me sighing, but it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else.

  “Let me guess. You told Freddie where the Dalmore is?”

  Now Jessie’s grinning with mirth as she slides onto the seat next to me.

  “Am I that obvious?” I smile while trying to take in the aroma of the scotch.

  Sadly, there are too many distractions right now—the overpowering scents of domestic draft beer and greasy bar food—for me to pick up on any subtleties.

  I take a gulp and let it burn comfortingly down my throat.

  “Having fun?”

  Jessie’s still grinning at me, which is exactly what I needed to see right now, and I smile back.

  “Why? You going to join me?”

  “Scotch? No. I’ll probably just stick with a beer for now.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Ignoring my question, Jessie points to the whisky glass I’m still cradling.

  “Your approach seems a bit different than usual tonight.”

  “My approach to what? Drinking?”

  “I guess…but also in general. I can’t say why, but I feel like I’m seeing a rare side of Brooke.”

&
nbsp; “Me too,” I comment as I take another, smaller sip. “Like I was saying, it’s been a day.”

  “Mmm…apparently it has?”

  Jessie looks to the bar to have Freddie grab her a drink, but it seems that Freddie is nowhere to be found.

  “Looks like Freddie disappeared.”

  “Disappeared is right.”

  Jessie stands up slightly and peers over the top of the bar. When Freddie remains unseen, Jessie gets up from her seat and walks around to the other side of the bar.

  “So, fess up,” she orders as she grabs a bottle of beer from the cooler.

  I feel a confused expression cross my face as I look directly at Jessie. We make eye contact, and she looks convincingly sincere about whatever the hell it is she’s talking about.

  “What? I think I missed part of what you said.”

  “I said fess up.”

  “To what?”

  The urge to look away and stare down at my whisky glass is strong. In fact, I think I hear the words staring down at my whiskey being sung in the song that’s currently playing.

  But I don’t give in.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You tell me.” She doesn’t miss a beat with that response.

  “You know what’s going on, Jessie. The school closing…the memorial service…Dylan.”

  “Dylan,” Jessie repeats, and I feel myself blushing for whatever reason.

  Maybe it’s because I’m not used to hearing his name mentioned so casually.

  Or, more likely, it’s because my friend has convinced herself that there’s something going on with me, and now I’m on the defense against this imaginary notion.

  “What do you think I’m fessing up to? I’m in no mood for mysteries.”

  There’s a baseball game playing on a screen about ten feet behind us. I can hear a crowd growing around that screen and starting to get audibly excited. As I wait anxiously for Jessie to answer, she looks in that direction for an unending few moments before sighing and looking back at me.

  “How much have you seen of Dylan since he’s been back?”

  I shrug, feeling flushed again at the question.

  “I haven’t…not since the funeral.”

  Again, I resist the urge to look away from Jessie, but I notice my hand clasping my glass on the bar without picking it up.