Page 92 of The Worst Best Man
Aiden opened the front door of his apartment and, ignoring the fresh flowers on the foyer table, headed down the hallway to his bedroom. He deposited his wallet and cufflinks in their special compartments in his closet. He slid out of his suit jacket and shoes, returning both to their appropriate places before changing into jeans and his favorite Yale sweatshirt.
Comfort clothes.
It had been another tough day at work. The board had finally settled on a CFO candidate that they could all stomach. All except for Elliot. He’d stormed out of the meeting like a child having a tantrum. Their father ignored the show of temper and moved on to the next agenda item.
They’d all been far too lenient with Elliot, ignoring his absolute uselessness. Uselessness Aiden could deal with. He didn’t like it but could accept it. However, the willful harm his half-brother was committing against the family and their business? That was a different story. Kilbourns were a lot of things. Manipulative bastards, cold-hearted sons of bitches, competitive enemies. But they never turned their back on family.
Aiden had broached the subject with his father after the meeting. Ferris had shut him down with a “Not now, son,” and ushered him out the door.
As much money as he made Kilbourn Holdings, as much value as he added, his father still thought of him as a child to be guided.
But the unease that had settled into his gut had less to do with work and more to do with Franchesca. She was holding back with him everywhere but bed. It irritated him to extend invitations only to be consistently shut down. She acted as if she couldn’t care less about his life. Yet when they were together heknewshe felt it. That magnetic pull that had them orbiting around each other. There was a connection and while she seemed only interested in exploring that connection when he was shoving his cock into her, it wasn’t enough for Aiden.
And that unsettled him.
He padded into the living room, his gaze settling on the decanter on the side table. It had become his habit to have a glass as soon as he walked in the door. And another one while he worked for another hour or two in his home office cleaning up what he hadn’t gotten to during the day. And a third while reading or catching the game.
He didn’t drink to get drunk. He drank to numb himself. It wasn’t pain that he felt. It was something more nebulous. Dissatisfaction? Emptiness? Loneliness?
Looking around the rest of the room, was it any wonder? He’d hired a designer. People of his stature didn’t choose their own furnishings. The company had done a reasonable job filling the place with things that he mostly liked or at least didn’t have to think about. The leather couch was a little too modern, a little too hard. But it looked right in the space.
His father always commented that the wealthy didn’t have time to sit around on their furniture. They were too busy making money.
Aiden’s mother had always rolled her eyes at the sentiment and insisted that Ferris sit and talk. They’d usually get five, maybe ten, minutes out of him before he heaved himself out of the silk upholstered wingback chair and headed back to work. Everything to his father was work. Success was defined by the number of hours a man put in and the number of zeroes in his portfolio. It was a cold way to look at the world. And Aiden had fallen into the same trap.
He traced a finger over the marble surround of the fireplace he never sat in front of. The leather club chairs flanking the fire had never held guests. The fully stocked bar built into the bookcase served only one.
He’d considered this place to be his sanctuary, but today it felt like a two-dimensional replica of a home, a life.
Aiden’s gaze flicked back to the scotch. There was no siren’s song coming from the crystal. Only a habit. He hated weakness, and the fact that he’d managed to develop a crutch without noticing it was embarrassing. He’d confessed to Frankie that he thought he drank too much.Why had he told her that? Why had he given her that weapon?
He scraped a hand over his face and wandered over to the piano he didn’t know how to play. He didn’t feel safe sharing things with her. Not when she’d clearly marked it as a one-way street. But he couldn’t stop from offering up pieces of himself to her. Sacrifices to a cruel goddess, he mused.
Only she wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t disinterested. She was… careful. And maybe she had the right idea to remain distrustful.
The buzzer to his door sounded, and Aiden frowned. Very few people were cleared to this floor. His mother would have called first.
He crossed to the door and found his father on the other side of it.
Ferris Kilbourn strolled inside, hands in his pockets in a deceptively casual stance. Ferris and his wife, Elliot’s mother, lived two blocks over in a stunning two-story penthouse. But despite the proximity, they rarely made social calls.
“This is a surprise,” Aiden said, closing the door behind him.
“I thought it would be good to talk away from the office,” Ferris told him, perusing the space as if he were a bored guest in a museum.
“Would you like a drink?” Aiden offered.
“Macallan?”
“Of course.”
Aiden led the way into the living room and poured a glass. He hesitated and then poured a second. He handed one to his father and deliberately took a seat in one of the club chairs.
Ferris unbuttoned his jacket and sat down on the couch, stretching his arm across the back of it. Aiden had gotten his looks from his mother, all dark hair and blue eyes. His father had the gingery hair of his Irish heritage, most of it gone now. What remained was trimmed short. He was clean shaven and always, always in a suit. His father was the type of man who wore a tie on Christmas morning. And not a silly Santa tie, either. He preferred Hermes.
Aiden waited while his father gathered his thoughts. Neither appreciated the banality of small talk, and there was power in silence.
“I’m thinking of retiring,” Ferris announced without preamble.
