Clad
This is family drama. The kind I should not involve myself in—but I can't help it. I want to be involved. I want to be included because of her.
The breakfast table has been cleared. Not that I'm complaining; I lost my appetite after the stunt Mr. Moore pulled. My gaze remains fixated on the door, but it does not swing open. No one walks in. Harley and her mother have been gone for ten minutes—maybe fifteen? No, it's ten. I had been counting. And every minute of it, excruciatingly painful.
"Mr. Clad?"
Harley's father's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I turn with a professional smile. He's watching me expectantly. We are the only two left in the dining room, under the guise of discussing and finalizing our collaboration.
Did he say something?
"Pardon me, could you repeat that?" I ask.
He smiles. "Of course. I was saying—regarding the wedding preparations—should we push them to be around the same date as our contract signing?"
