Chapter 12: Daddy’s Dirty Little Secret: Chapter 12

I rushed out of that office faster than the blood rushed to my cheeks, buttoning up my shirt to hide my shame. The heat crept up the back of my neck to my ears too, making them burn, and when I heard Dad in the hallway behind me—the telltale squeak of his Doc Martins on the ground—I reeled around and stood with my shoulders squared.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed, not meaning to come across as angry or as flustered as I was. Here I thought that text was Xander asking me to come relieve some stress, which we’d gotten very efficient at this week, and I walked in to see Dad seated in the very chair Xander bent me over only two days ago.

“I came for lunch,” he said, narrowing his eyes defensively. “Can’t I just have a quick catch-up with an old friend before my date with my daughter for lunch?” His hands splayed out, in defense, palms upward.

My first instinct upon seeing him seated there was to feel mortified that my father had seen me in a state of undress while entering my boss’s office. It was only a few buttons, but it was enough to make a fast assumption. But seeing the defensiveness in his expression made me stop and try to rethink things on the fly. Had he even looked up at me before I turned and ran out? Maybe he never saw my shirt unbuttoned at all.

“I just meant—” I huffed and tried to calm myself. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you, and I thought Xander needed me for something important.” I inwardly winced as my brain subconsciously reordered my father’s visit to a lower priority than a booty call with my boss. It wasn’t how I wanted to feel, but apparently it was the depth of my true emotion. Reason number one why I shouldn’t have been screwing Xander in the first place.

“Are you ready for lunch? If not, I can hang out with Xander a while longer.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, and I tossed my hair, willing the blood to drain from my cheeks so I could breathe again. I was sweating too, palms so wet they felt like I just got out of a pool.

“Yes, now is good. I’ll just grab my purse …” Turning, I led him toward my office, door standing open after leaving in a hurry. I was excited to get that text. After Godwin teased me the entire meeting about how flustered I was over Xander, my body was worked up. I had told Godwin in a moment of weakness that some things were happening, though I didn’t give explicit detail, and ever since he’d been playing devil’s advocate.

After snatching my purse, I let Dad escort me downstairs and across the street to the little café. When he owned Next Gen, we had lunch a few times a week—whenever he wasn’t in meetings with clients or potential clients. It had been a fond habit, one I missed. So when he invited me to dine with him today, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. He’d been staying with me since the break-in, and it appeared he’d be around a while longer. The insurance company was butting heads with contractors, and Dad was stuck in the middle of a financial battle over how much it would cost. I pitied him, which was the only reason I didn’t offer to put him up in a hotel.

The café was busy but not packed, the kind of midday lull that made the clinking of forks and the soft murmur of conversation feel more intimate than usual. Dad and I settled at a wrought iron table under a red umbrella, the fabric faded from years in the sun. He squinted into the light and waved off my offer to switch spots.

“I like the sun,” he said with a small shrug, unfolding his napkin onto his lap like it was a formal dinner. “Feels good on my joints.”

“Well, you’re not that old,” I said with a smile, trying to lighten the air that still felt too heavy from earlier. My cheeks had finally cooled, but my stomach was tight with nerves.

A waitress came over and took our order—chicken salad sandwich for me, turkey club for him, two iced teas. We handed over the menus, and I glanced across the table as he leaned back with a little sigh, stretching his legs like a man twice his age.

We were quiet for a minute, both watching a couple two tables over arguing in hushed tones. I felt like I should say something, but the words got tangled up behind my teeth. So I went for the obvious.

“I’m glad you came today,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I meant it. “Felt like old times for a second.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. We used to do this more often, huh?”

“Back when you were at Next Gen all the time. You barely had time for coffee, let alone lunch.”

“I miss it sometimes,” he said, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “Then I remember the stress and the twenty-four-hour workdays, and I come to my senses.”

I laughed, but there was something distant in his tone. Like he was holding something in. I reached for my tea, letting the straw click against the glass just to have something to do.

“You sure you’re comfortable at my place?” I asked carefully, eyes on the condensation ring he’d left on the table. “I know it’s not exactly a luxury suite, and the couch has that weird spring that jabs you⁠—”

“You don’t have to say it,” he said, cutting me off gently. “I know you’d rather have your space back.”

That made my stomach twist. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what you feel.” He gave a shrug that tried to look casual. “It’s okay, Amelia. I didn’t plan to stay this long. I’m heading back tonight.”

“What?” I sat up straighter, caught off guard. “No, Dad, you can’t. The door’s still⁠—”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said quickly. “Get it replaced this weekend. Or board it up. I just … I need to be in my own space again.”

There was something brittle in the way he said it, like he was trying not to break open in front of me.

So I softened my voice, leaned forward a little. “Did the insurance company say when the contractors are coming out?”

He made a face like he’d bitten into something sour. “They’re still arguing over the quote. Apparently, the first contractor inflated the labor costs, so now it’s a whole back and forth. Nothing’s scheduled yet.”

I sat back frowning. “And the front door? What, are you just supposed to wait around indefinitely with a plywood slab and a broken lock?”

“I told you, I’ll figure it out,” he said again, but it sounded thinner this time.

“Okay. But even if you do figure that out—what about the alarm system? Shouldn’t it have gone off during the break-in?”

He hesitated. Long enough that I noticed.

“It was off,” he said finally, voice flat. “Has been.”

“What do you mean it was off?”

“I didn’t pay the bill,” he muttered, not quite meeting my eyes. “Canceled the autopay a few months ago. Didn’t have the money for it, and it seemed … optional.”

“Optional?” I blinked. “Dad, that’s literally why it’s there.”

“I didn’t think someone was going to actually break in, Amelia.”

My throat tightened. He sounded defensive now, like a kid who knew he screwed up and was trying to justify it.

“But even if I had kept it on,” he added quickly, as if reading my mind, “the electric’s going to get shut off anyway. I got the final notice this morning. If I don’t pay by Monday, I won’t have lights. No power, no fridge, no heat. So the alarm wouldn’t work regardless.”

I stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“Because it’s not your responsibility.” His jaw clenched, and he looked out toward the street. “You’ve got your own life. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“But you’re already in my apartment,” I said, not unkindly. “And now you want to go back to a house with no door, no electricity, and no security system?”

He didn’t answer that.

He just picked up his tea, took a slow sip, and set it down again—hands steady, expression blank.

I leaned forward. “What about your profit share? You said when you officially retired, that was going to keep you afloat.”

He paused—just long enough. “I spent it,” he said finally. His tone was flat. “Took a gamble, literally. Casino. Thought I could stretch it into something more, but I didn’t know when to quit.”

I stared at him. “You what?”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I know. It was stupid. I thought maybe I’d hit big and not have to lean on anyone. I lost more than I could afford to.” A lie. Or half of one, at best. Something about the way he said it—quick, rehearsed, vague. And he never talked about gambling before. Not even recreationally.

I sat back in my chair, trying to breathe through the slow flood of shock. “How much do you need?”

He let out a sigh and rubbed his jaw. “To catch up on utilities? About six hundred. But to get ahead again—to get the door fixed, and pay off what I’ve put on cards … I don’t know. Ten? Twelve?”

“Twelve thousand?” I choked on my sip of tea. A few heads at nearby tables turned.

“I’ve been working,” he added quickly, like that would soften the number. “A few part-time gigs. Just enough to stay ahead of the worst of it. Deliveries. Some warehouse work overnight a few times a week.”

My heart ached. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped sooner.”

“Because I’m not your kid,” he said, too sharply. “I don’t need you putting food on my table. I just need a little help until things level out.”

I stared at the tabletop. Twelve thousand dollars. I didn’t have that kind of money sitting around. I definitely couldn’t ask Xander for it. That wasn’t the kind of favor you slipped in between pillow talk and quarterly projections.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Maybe it’s time to think about selling the house.” He stiffened. “I’m serious. You could sell it, get something smaller. Or—” I hesitated. “You could stay with me for a while. For real. Move in until you’re back on your feet.”

He looked at me like I’d just slapped him across the face. “What, so you can put food on my table?”

“No. So I know you’re safe. So I don’t come home one day and find out someone broke in again, or that you’ve been sitting in the dark for a week without telling me.”

His eyes narrowed, voice rising. “Are you trying to put me in a home now?”

“What? No! That’s not—Dad, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Sure sounds like it,” he snapped. “You want me under your roof so you can manage me like I’m some burden to organize.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. This wasn’t about logic anymore. His pride was hurt. He was spiraling.

“You’d rather just rot in that house, sitting by candlelight with a baseball bat by the door?” I shot back, frustrated despite myself.

“I’d rather not feel like an old man with nothing to show for a lifetime of work!” he barked, pushing back his chair. It scraped loudly against the concrete patio. “I don’t need you—or Xander—or anyone else telling me how to live.”

“You brought Xander into this?” I asked, incredulous.

“He’s your boss, isn’t he? Or is that just part of it now?” he said, bitterly, and I flinched.

I stood slowly, palms flat against the table. “I’m going to help with the electric. Just—please don’t go home until the door is fixed. That’s all I’m asking.”

He didn’t respond. He just shook his head like he couldn’t stand to hear another word from me, then turned and walked away—fast, too fast for someone who’d claimed his knees were giving him trouble last week.

I didn’t follow. I sat back down, staring at the empty space across from me, heart hammering in my chest.

Something was wrong. He wasn’t just broke—he was scared. Hiding something. The break-in didn’t feel random anymore. And if he wouldn’t tell me the truth, I was going to have to find it myself.