Chapter 31

Linny

“Hey Linny, I spent the last few hours with Jeremy Weston.”

I look up to see Mitchell standing in the open doorway of my office with a smug grin on his face.

I glance down at the small silver clock that sits on the corner of my desk. It’s one of the few things I inherited from my granddad. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

His gaze drops to his watch. “It’s not even five p.m.”

“Dad told me that you like to get in your jammies and watch Netflix before dinner.”

His face reddens. “I did that once when I was sick. He stopped by my place with chicken soup.”

That sounds like my dad. He’s been my hero all of my life. I’m not surprised that he’d step up to become Mitchell’s too since his own father took off before he was born.

“What did you and Jeremy talk about this afternoon?” He takes it upon himself to walk into my office so he can plop down in one of the white leather chairs in front of my desk.

“Make yourself at home,” I say sarcastically.

My tone is lost on him since his gaze is glued to the screen of his phone. “Dave put me in charge of the Vrite Footwear campaign.”

I paste a smile on my face even though I’m seething inside. I worked hard to land that account and now it’s in Mitchell’s incompetent hands.

My silence lures his gaze back up. “It pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

“What?” I ask casually.

“That I’m in charge of that account.” He taps the back of his phone case on the edge of my desk. “That I’m up for the promotion. That you’re going to have to answer to me in a few months.”

I’m mostly pissed off that I’ve worked hard for years, devoting myself to the family business at every turn and it may have all been a waste of time. There’s a strong possibility that I’ll be passed over to lead it.

Mitchell doesn’t let up. “That I’m the son your dad always wanted.”

That one stings. He knows it, but I refuse to show it.

“What are your plans for the Vrite campaign?” I shoot him a look, knowing that he won’t have an answer.

“What are your plans for the Rizon launch party?” he counters with a sneer. “Jeremy said that you were still working out the small details. You should get a move on, don’t you think?”

You should go to hell.

The words play on my tongue until I catch sight of my dad. He’s headed straight toward my office with a wide grin on his face.

“We got the house,” he announces as he strolls through the doorway. “Your mother and I have our Florida homestead and we can’t wait to move.”

She’s not my mother, but he is my father.

I push to my feet and round my desk to hug him.

It’s inevitable now. There won’t be a reprieve. He’s moving to Florida and one way or another, my life will change forever.

***

I glance down at my phone one last time before I reach for the remote to turn off the television in my bedroom.

I got home about an hour ago. It was after eleven. I’d spent the evening with my dad. We had dinner and toasted to his upcoming move.

He did almost all of the talking, exuberance driving his every word.

I’ve never seen him this happy and each time I snuck a peek at my phone, I half expected to look up to see disappointment on his face.

In his perfect world, all phones would be turned off during dinner, but I wasn’t playing by that rule tonight.

West texted me after I left his office this afternoon.

He promised that if he had the time, he’d call me tonight.

My phone has been silent all night except for a few text messages from Harmony and an email from Ivy about lunch later in the week.

Resting my back against my headboard, I slide my laptop onto my lap and flip it open.

My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type his name into the search bar.

Jeremy Weston.

This time I avoid all images and zero in on the Rizon company website.

His bio is generic. It’s nothing more than some disjointed facts about his education and his familial connection to the company’s founder.

I go back to the search results and skim them, looking for something more.

Nothing catches my eye once I realize that the man doesn’t have any social media accounts.

I move to shut the laptop but stop myself.

I take a deep breath and with shaking hands, I type in my name.

Lincoln Walsh.

I release the breath once I realize that virtually every result on the first page is focused on my grandfather. The second page too and the third.

I hit the backspace button again and again until the search bar is blank.

Linny Walsh.

I stare at my nickname after typing it out.

“Please don’t be there,” I whisper to myself as I hit the enter button. “Please.”

My heart hammers as I scan each result.

My bio page on the Faye & Sons’ website pops up. My social media accounts take up the next four spots.

There are quotes that clients have made and an old magazine article that features a picture of Clive Parker, the head of Corteck, a software company that hired me to help them launch a series of new apps two years ago, and me.

I read every result; page after page of generic work-related material is all I find.

Snapping the cover of my laptop shut, I breathe a sigh of relief. My biggest mistake hasn’t found its way online. I pray that it never does.