“She mentioned something about being free this Friday.”
“Oh. Well, if we’re done by nine, I’m free.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “A date?”
“Nope. Not really. More of an appointment.” I cringed. “An arrangement sounds nicer than appointment.”
“With?”
“The blond guy from Friday night.”
He studied me for a second, sipping his coffee. “Having seconds?”
“Oh no, I had seconds and thirds the Friday just gone. This would technically be fourths, fifths, and hopefully sixths.”
He blinked. “Three times. You weren’t kidding about that . . . You know, statistically speaking, you make the rest of us look bad.”
I laughed. “Well, I would apologise, but I’m not sorry.”
“So, is this a casual agreement or . . . ?”
“Super casual. In his words, ‘no strings, no complications.’”
“You know how these things end, right? More complicated than Chinese arithmetic. And I can say that. I am Chinese. That shit is complicated.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t think it will. He seemed pretty sure about that. He’s got a very nice apartment on the wharf, a wardrobe full of expensive suits, so he’s good at whatever he does, obviously. Sure of himself, anyway. And he seemed like the emotionally detached type to me.”
Terrence smiled at that. “Sounds perfect for you.”
I snorted. “Why do I get the feeling that was not a compliment?”
He laughed again. “So, does Mr Emotionally Detached have a name?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure he does.”
Terrence snorted. “Oh, Bryce. I’ve missed you. Now get out of my office. I have work to do.”
I got to the door. “Talk to Mara about dinner and let me know.”
He waved me off and was already on the phone with some overseas client by the time I’d walked out. He was so driven by his work, and I envied that passion. I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I was just afraid of putting years of my life into something I didn’t love.
I didn’t want to dedicate my life to my father’s business. That was his passion, not mine. I was proud of all he’d done and everything he’d accomplished. But I wanted something that was mine. I wanted to build my own dreams, and it was time. It honestly felt that if I didn’t do it now, I never would.
So, with Terrence’s advice ringing in my ears, I went home, opened my laptop and started to put a business plan together. He was right. I couldn’t just sit down with my dad and tell him I wasn’t interested without having a fully fleshed-out, step-by-step plan. That was how my dad’s brain worked.
And sure enough, that’s exactly how it went.
Dad got home late, with containers of takeout in his hand. I’d been so busy on my laptop, I hadn’t even realised the time. But I soon grabbed some plates and we sat at his kitchen island bench. “Thought I might have seen you in at the office today,” he began.
I shook my head and swallowed down my mouthful of food. “No, I . . .” And I didn’t want to lie to him. “Dad, I’ve been working on a business plan. I don’t have much of it put together yet, just getting ideas on paper, and I wasn’t going to say anything, but . . .” I put my fork down. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done. And I love your business and everything about what you’ve built . . . for you, Dad. Not for me. I’ve told you this before.”
“Bryce, you can walk right into senior management of a multimillion-dollar corporation. Do you know how many people would kill for that opportunity?”
“That’s just it, Dad. I don’t want to walk right into anything. I want to build something that I’ve started. Something that’s mine.” I sighed. “Please don’t think I’m being ungrateful. Because I really do appreciate every opportunity, and I know how hard you’ve worked. You deserve the success, but . . .”
God, why was this so hard?
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” I added. “And I don’t want you to be mad or disappointed.”
“Well, of course I’m going to be disappointed. I thought we’d be working together . . .”
Oh god.
“Dad.”
“But I get it.”
My eyes shot to his. Wait, what? “You do?”
He stared out at the view of the city lights. “I’d hoped you’d come back from overseas ready to step into my shoes.”
“Your shoes? Are you kidding me?”
He cracked a smile. “Okay, well, maybe not for another twenty years. But one day. In the meantime, I thought you could run a division of holdings.”
“And make redundant someone who deserves their job? Or walk into a made-up position. Dad, that’s not me. I don’t want to be handed a job or a title just because I’m your son. Working overseas was fine, but they all knew who I was. Bryce Schroeder, son of the James Schroeder of Schroeder Hotels. No one was ever going to disagree with anything I said.”
“Well, you could apply for a job in the mailroom if you wanted.”
“You don’t even have a mailroom.”
Dad smiled again and finally conceded a nod. “So you’re doing a business plan, huh?”
I nodded. “I’ve barely got the bones of it put together so far, but yes.”
“Want to give me the elevator pitch?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to see the big picture. I don’t want you to tell me it won’t work from a thirty-second spiel.”
Dad considered this for a moment, then ate some more dinner. “And the funding for this business?”
“I’m working on start-up costs.”
“If you want financial backing—”
“I don’t,” I replied, a little too quickly. My answer even surprised me, but it was the truth. “If I’m going to do this, Dad, I need to do it by myself.”
Dad’s expression was unreadable. Surprise? Humour? Pride?
“Fair enough.” He nodded slowly. “So your business model?”
I barked out a laugh. “I’m basically using yours.” He shot me a look. “What? I know it works. I’ve worked in it myself for years. Four years here, two years in three different countries.”
He raised an eyebrow and almost smiled before he pushed a container of katsu chicken closer to me. “Eat some more dinner. And if you want me to look at your business plan before you approach investors or a business banker, let me know.”
I smiled, so bloody relieved. “I will. Thanks.”
“And if it’s not good enough . . .”
And there it was.
I met his gaze. “It will be.”
It had to be.
I spent the next four days pulling apart financials and projections and data analysis, and by Friday night, I was itching for nine o’clock.
Well, itching wasn’t the right word.
I was aching for it.
I had no idea what to expect when I arrived at his place. I dressed kinda casual: jeans, boots, and a grunge T-shirt. I mean, it was expensive, but whatever. I was hoping not to have it on for long.