Unconditional
Page 17

Garrett’s eyes flash dark with shock.
I freeze, realizing in an instant my mistake. The bruise, the one I’ve been hiding. He saw it.
Oh God.
I abruptly turn away, letting my hair fall back in place. “Where are the bathrooms?” I ask quickly, sliding down from the stool.
“That way,” Garrett says with a nod. His face creases with concern. “Carina—”
“Thanks,” I answer shortly, fleeing for the safety of the women’s stall. Inside, I lock the door and check the mirror, trying to see myself through his eyes. The bruise has faded, just a little, but the ugly green and yellow markings are unmistakeable.
He knows.
I gulp. I shouldn’t feel ashamed, but I can’t help the flush of embarrassment that spreads through me, hot and prickling.
He doesn’t know anything, I tell myself, rinsing my wrists under the cold water to calm down. It could have been an accident, I could have tripped and fallen; there are a dozen good explanations. The only thing that will make this awkward is if I act like it’s a big deal.
And it’s not. I won’t let it be.
I emerge from the bathrooms, checking around for Garrett. There’s no sign of him; he must be in the back or outside. I let out a sigh of relief. I can leave my money on the counter and slip out, avoiding any questions he might have. By the time I run into him again back at the house, there’s no way he’ll bring it up.
My eyes drift over a familiar man in the doorway and I stop, doing a double take.
“Dad?”
My father turns, his face brightening when he sees me. I cross the floor to him, confused. “What are you doing here? How did you know I was in Beachwood?”
“I had a hunch.” My father embraces me in a warm hug. He’s wearing his usual uniform of a crisp white Oxford shirt and tweed jacket, wire-rimmed glasses propped on his nose. His gray hair is thinning, but perfectly styled: every inch the distinguished British academic. “You girls always seem to run back to this town, I can’t think why.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I tell him, “but I’m fine. You shouldn’t have worried. Everything’s OK.”
“It’s far from OK,” Dad corrects me, looking concerned. “Alexander’s been calling for days, he’s at his wit’s end. What were you thinking, running off like this, not a word to anyone? We thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“I just needed some space, that’s all,” I tell him, touched that he came all this way to see I was alright. “And it’s fine, really. Alex isn’t worried about me, he’s worried about his latest commission.”
“Don’t be glib,” he snaps, and I see that behind the concern, there’s tension: his jaw clenched, the vein popping on his forehead that I know all too well spells trouble.
I feel a shiver of unease.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” I say quickly, looking around. I don’t want an audience for this, so I lead him back behind the bar, down the hallway until I find the empty office space. Garrett won’t mind us being here. I push the door, and turn back to my father.
“I’m sorry if I worried you, really I am,” I say, trying to keep my tone soothing. It’s never pretty when my father loses his temper, so I try to stop it before it happens. “I should have thought. It’s just…it’s over,” I admit, looking down. “Me and Alexander. We’re done.”
It sounds so final, out loud here in the tiny room. I hold my breath, wondering what he’s going to say, what scathing new comment about how I can’t seem to keep a man. It’s an endless source of amusement to him, the failures of my love life, but instead of delivering some droll joke, my father doesn’t seem to register.
“You’re being overdramatic,” Dad dismisses me. “You’ve had a little spat, there’s no need to make such a big deal out of it. Now, when are you coming home?”
“No, Dad, you don’t understand.” I blink at him. “I mean it. I can’t go back to him, it’s over.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re not thinking this through.”
I swallow. “I am. I’ve had time here, on my own, and I’m certain. I can’t marry him. I’m sorry,” I add quietly, “I know you liked him—”
“You stupid girl!” My father suddenly explodes, eyes flashing with anger.
I reel back in shock.
“Like has nothing to do with it!” he tells me, furious. “Don’t you think about anyone but yourself?”
I stutter, “Dad—”
“You know I wanted him to invest in that real estate deal,” he roars. “I was this close to signing the paperwork. And now you’re just throwing our future away!”
My stomach lurches. He’d mentioned the deal in passing, but I didn’t think it would come to anything. My father always had some deal or investment opportunity dangling, full of promise to restore his fortunes. Our family money was all gone, and now he drifted between fellowships and rich old friends, pretending he was still solvent even as he spent months as a houseguest in their summer homes and city bolt-holes.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, “I didn’t think. Maybe he’ll still want to invest,” I add hopefully. “If it’s a good deal, this won’t make any difference. You know Alex always puts business first.”