Page 65 of Unlocking my Boss's Heart

“You’re not,” I whispered back. “Everyone else came early.”

We walked to the table, my hand on the small of her back.

“Everyone, this is Celia.”

She had already met my mother, Johan, and Benjamin at the hospital, so I introduced her to the other guests—Johan’sgirlfriend, our uncle, four of my father’s business associates, and finally, at the head of the table, my father.

“Mr. Waltons, it’s good to see you looking so well.” Celia greeted him.

Ever the charmer, he took Celia’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Celia Adams. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Her voice cracked as she looked up at me. “You have?”

When we locked eyes, I shook my head so slightly it was barely perceptible. I hadn’t spoken to my father about Celia. But I suspected the rest of my family had not been as reticent.

“You came with Anton to the hospital, did you not?” he asked.

“Yes.”

My father nodded. “Welcome.” He stretched his hand out, indicating the empty chairs beside Johan. “Please, sit.”

The evening was pleasant. The cook had prepared an exceptional meal with three courses, and the conversation was fun and uncomplicated—at least until my parents started grilling Celia as though she was a witness they were cross-examining.

“I understand you’re not a senior attorney,” my father said.

She looked up from her plate, eyes wide, thrown off balance about the question.

“No.” She cleared her throat. “First-year associate.”

My mother asked Celia questions about her family and childhood. She grew up outside Dallas, Texas. Her father was a contractor, and her mother was a high school biology teacher. She was an only child, but she had several cousins.

Johan was the life of the dinner. He carried on with jokes, and he never once let the conversation die. Benjamin was more relaxed, speaking only when asked, but it was obvious how content he was just listening to everyone else.

After dinner, I was glad to have the chance to spend time with Celia. We walked between the shrubs in the garden on the interlocked paved paths, our footsteps unhurried. The rest ofthe family was sitting inside, having coffee and chatting, and the other guests had already left.

Celia cooed as she admired the flowers. “I don’t know why, but I’m not surprised to be walking in a purely aesthetic garden,” she exclaimed when we passed a pineapple shrub.

“Yeah, my mother spends a lot of time in the garden. Gardening has been her passion for as long as I can remember. Tropical plants like pineapples wouldn’t survive the winter here. She transfers them to the greenhouse during the cold season and replants them outside in milder seasons.”

“Wow, I’m impressed…. It shows her dedication to maintaining a diverse and picture-worthy garden.” She continued, “Your father has a lot of energy, too. It’s unexpected, considering what he’s been through. In my head, I pictured him to be more like you.”

I raised a brow. “Like me?”

“Yeah, you’re so…stoic.”

“Stoic?”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “No offense. He’s more open…and boisterous.”

I laughed at that. “I suppose Johan and my father shared more of those traits than I do. Theyarefull of life. So… you’d expected him to be stoic, huh?”

She cooked her head. “Why did you emphasize the word like that?”

“Like what?”

“As if it’s a bad word.”

“But it is, isn’t it?”

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