Page 6 of Fighting Mr. Knight

At least the aftershave is for the two little partner cretins rather than Danielle.

My phone buzzes, and I get it out.

Oh, God.

Three missed calls from The White Horse pub.

Dad.

My stomach heaves. I always fear the worst.

I hold a finger up. “Give me a minute, Max. The White Horse has been calling.”

He makes a snorting sound. “I don’t have all day, Bonnie—they’re going now.”

I eye him with a flicker of annoyance as I hit redial.

Max has always been snobby about Dad.

No answer. Now my stomach really twists.

His brows slant in heavy disapproval. “He’s an adult, stop babysitting him.”

Max is right. I have an entry into the big boys’ club. I can’t walk away from this opportunity but…he’s my dad.

Cursing under my breath, I lock eyes with Max in an unspoken exchange.

“Priorities, Bonnie.” He shakes his head and walks away, probably taking my chances of promotion with him.

***

Call me overly cautious, but when a guy is being hauled out of a bar by two bartenders, barefoot and slurring absolute shit before dinner time, it’s probably time to reassess your local boozer.

Especially if the guy ejected is your dad.

Dad’s not leaving without a fight. One foot sticks stubbornly in the doorway in protest.

Now he has everyone’s attention. It’s exactly the time when every office worker across East London spills out of the office and into the pubs.

He has the red bulbous nose of an older man, and I wonder if all men’s noses eventually go like this over time. That’s why personality is so important.

I sigh audibly.

Fuck my life.

Had it been past the watershed hour, he would have attracted a smaller crowd, but when you’re the only one completely annihilated in broad daylight, all eyes are on you.

My first instinct is to turn around, sprint back down the street, and spare myself a bucketload of cringe. There’s still time.

But pangs of guilt keep me rooted to the spot.

Besides, Uncle Pat has already clocked me.

“Dad,” I address him sharply as the doormen deposit him against a wall. “Dad,” I repeat loudly when both his eyes refuse to focus on me.

The stench of whiskey sends me into a coughing fit.

“He’s barred for tonight, Bonnie,” Gerry, the doorman I’ve met a few times this year tells me. Sometimes I wish they weren’t nice enough to call me when Dad decides to have one of his sessions.

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