Page 97 of Crave

“Calm down, Son. Tell me what happened?” I shake my head at him dismissively. “I can help.”

“Fine,” I huff in surrender, then proceed to tell my dad the events at the restaurant, leaving out the part of Sandy’s past pregnancy.

Dad looks at me and shakes his head. “Son, this is the shit I warned you about when you two first got together.”

“I know. I know. I’m trying, Dad.”

“Yeah, you are. Look, Son, don’t lose Sandy over this.”

“And in my defense, I didn’t say anything to Tracy until she took it upon herself to apologize behalf. I’m supposed to see Sandy tonight and make things right, but this fucking weather won’t let me.”

“You’ll be back in a few days. You’ll make it up to her then. I need to go call your mother. Text me when you land tomorrow.”

“Hey, you’ve reached Sandy. Leave a message.” I hang up the phone and slide it into my back pocket without bothering to leave a message. The last time I heard her voice was yesterday morning after landing in Atlanta.

That call was rushed. She was at work and I was in a cab on my way to a meeting. That conversation is just a blur now, her sweet voice a distant memory. Since we met, we’ve never been more than a few miles apart, and this physical distance is exacerbated by the emotional one from our fight a few days ago.

I don’t know who thought it would be a good idea to play eighteen holes of golf in the blazing heat. Sweat is rolling down my back and my balls. I’m thirsty, irritated, and I miss my woman.

Despite being distracted, the meeting has gone well. I’ve met with the owner, a man in his early seventies who is ready to retire. I’ve also met his son, who has no interest in running his father’s business. This is the feeling out process, and from what I’ve gleaned, Gordon Montgomery is more than willing to let Clark Holdings acquire this business. As far as I’m concerned, my job here was complete the minute he agreed to give us access to his financials. This golf game is just a formality, but my heart just isn’t in it. My heart is approximately 1100 miles away, but it’s only Friday, and Mr. Montgomery has invited me to his family’s house for dinner tomorrow.

“I have a daughter a few years younger than you, Jacob.” This new topic of conversation has my ears perking, and not for a good reason. I don’t miss the smirk on Gordon Junior’s face.

“Daddy, stop.”

What grown man calls his father daddy?

“It’s time Delilah settle down, Gordy. Jacob here comes from a nice family. We don’t even mind that they’re Yanks. She needs someone who can take care of her.”

How big of you, Mr. Montgomery.

Gordon junior guffaws and puffs on a disgusting cigar.

“Jacob isn’t wearing a wedding ring.” His southern drawl gets my attention again. He points towards my left hand as if that somehow makes his point.

“I have a girlfriend, sir.”

“How polite. I like you, Son.” He slaps his hand across my shoulder. “Girlfriends come and go, but my Delilah is wife material. You’ll meet her tonight.”

That’s exactly what I don’t fucking need right now. I pray that Sandy doesn’t ask for details about this trip. The last thing she needs to hear is some old money family is trying to hook me up with their daughter.

The game drags on and my phone remains silent. By the time we finish the eighteenth hole, I’m ready to get the hell out of Georgia. I excuse myself and head to the men’s room and pull out my phone to call Sandy, buter phone goes straight to voicemail.

“Fuck!” I curse. Frustrated by her lack of communication, I call the pediatrician’s office only to be told that she did not come to work today.

My mind goes in many different directions, none of them good. Was she in an accident on her way to work? We texted last night, and she did not mention having the day off. In fact, she told me she could not come on this trip because she had to work. Is she sick? Did something happen to her mother or sister? I’d like to think that she would reach out to me if something happened to her or her family. I know she would.

I think back to our last round of text messages. She asked about my schedule, and I told her I’m scheduled to land in Boston at 10 am on Sunday, having booked the earliest possible flight. That would get me to her door before 11. I reminded her about our upcoming long weekend at The Vineyard. She never responded to that last text.

I try her phone again and it goes right to voicemail.

Exasperated, I nearly toss my phone against the wall, but I think better of it. I scroll through my contacts, grateful that I had the foresight to exchange phone numbers with the only person who can tell me what the hell is going on with my girl.

Thankfully, she answers on the third ring.

“Tash, it’s Jake.”

CHAPTER 33

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