“Earth to Corbin.” My dad’s voice cuts through the room.
I glance up to find him staring at me, arms crossed, ruddy face tight with irritation.
“You got somewhere better to be?” he snaps.
I clear my throat. “Just checking the time. I’m volunteering in Tate’s class this afternoon. Don’t want to be late.”
His mouth twists like I just admitted to something shameful.
“Since when is that a man’s job?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Volunteering in a classroom?”
Susan smirks across the table, arms folded like she’s just waiting for me to bite back.
And maybe I should. Maybe I should tell him he’s the last person who should be talking about parenting roles, considering he never filled his.
Instead, I lean back, my voice smooth. “Wouldn’t know. My mom wasn’t around, so I never really got to see how the roles were supposed to shake out.”
That lands. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t respond.
“Anything new to report?” he grumbles instead, changing the subject.
I exhale slowly. “Gourmet Fresh Foods has a TV ad campaign starting Sunday.”
Dad nods once. “Good.” But there’s nothing good about the way he says it.
“I have a new campaign,” Susan announces, her voice dripping with satisfaction.
I don’t look at her. I already know what’s coming.
“Go on,” Dad says, barely interested.
“Pendosa Pharmaceuticals,” she continues. “They’re looking to launch a social media campaign.”
“Corbin can help you with that,” Dad replies instantly, like it’s not even up for discussion. “He’s handled a few pharma accounts before.”
Kill. Me. Now.
I finally glance across the table at Susan. She’s already looking at me, one brow arched in triumph, and before I can even think of an excuse, she winks.
I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the table.
I need to get the hell out of here.
Maybe it’s time to stop working for someone who sees me as nothing more than a convenient cog in the machine. Maybe it’s time to build something of my own.
Something to consider.
***
The drive to Tate’s school is slow, clogged with the midday lunch rush heading back to work. I don’t mind. The quiet is a rare commodity these days. I get plenty of it when Tate’s with Jules, but lately, work has been gnawing at me.
I like what I do. I’m good at it. But working for my dad? That’s been the most unfulfilling experience of my life.
It’s also cost me my marriage.
Not entirely—no, that was on me—but he sure as hell didn’t make it easier.
I pull into the school parking lot, slide into a visitor space, and go through the motions. Walk to the front office. Sign in. Slap a name tag onto my chest. Make the short trek to Miss Greta’s room.
