Page 38 of Gonzo's Grudge
“Ah.” He smiled a little. “A philosopher.”
“Just a man who’s lived enough to know what works.”
He looked at his plate like he’d finished a proof. “We value stability in this family, Gabriel Predictability. We?—”
“We value integrity, honor, and respect,” I cut in, quiet. “Same as you I would hope.”
His eyes sharpened. He didn’t like being interrupted at his own table.
I felt IvaLeigh shift beside me, bracing, ready to pour water on it, and her mom could sense weather changing, because she said, bright as clean glass, “Coffee? Pie? I made lemon. You look like a man who likes lemon.”
“I do,” I conceded, because I didn’t want to waste her effort on the altar of man pride. “Thank you.”
She busied herself at the counter. I watched her hands, the way they shook once and then steadied, and it hit me that she’d done this dance with her husband for years. She wasn’t weak. She was tactical.
“So tell me,” he said to me, knife settling on the plate with a tick. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
I nearly laughed. Not because the question was old-fashioned—though it was—but because I’d been expecting it since I walked in. I looked at the girl beside me instead of the man across.
“My intention is to give her respect, honor her feelings to the best of my ability for the situations that arise,” I explained. “To keep her fed, warm, and safe. To not lie about the parts of me that should scare her. To make sure she knows she can leave if she ever wants and that I won’t hold her back from anything she wants.”
He blinked once. Twice. That wasn’t the script he thought I’d read from.
“And to what end?” he asked, almost gently. “Marriage? Children? You going to put a ring on that finger and choose a mortgage over that Harley-Davidson?”
“Daddy,” she interjected again, voice fraying.
“We’re not talking about ends,” I shared. “We’re talking about now. That is all you need to know, sir. What we decide is between us and what she decides to share with you.”
“Now is how ends begin,” he attempted to challenge me.
“Then we’ll begin right,” I said.
Her mom slid plates down like an umpire calling safe. “Lemon pie.”
“Thank you,” I said again, and meant it.
I took a bite. It was tart and sweet and fresh.
He set his fork down, decision made. “Gabriel,” he said, smooth. “Why don’t you join me in the study before we have coffee. Just a word.”
IvaLeigh stiffened. “Daddy?—”
“It’s all right,” I cut in, squeezing her knee under the table. “We’ll talk. It’ll be good for us both to clear the air. If I had a beautiful daughter like you, I’d feel some kind of way about a man like me too.”
I followed him down the hall past framed photos—her in braces, her in a prom dress beside a boy who wasn’t a man yet, a Christmas where everyone wore matching pajamas like they were telling the world a story. A family that looked whole if you didn’t read the footnotes.
The study door closed with a soft click that sounded like a lock even if it wasn’t.
I’d been polite for forty-seven minutes.
That was long enough.
The study smelled like cigars and old books. Dark wood shelves lined the walls, heavy curtains drawn over the windows. He shut the door behind us and turned like he meant to square up.
I didn’t give him the chance.
I had him pinned against the wall before he got his mouth open. My forearm pressed to his chest, hard enough to steal his breath. His eyes went wide, hands bracing uselessly at my arm.
