I don’t have to tally tonight’s numbers to know we’ve been more than successful at winning over new clients and striking new deals with existing clients. And best of all, it’s been easy, casual, and fun. I’m in awe. My wife is one amazing creature.

Later, I throw Howard’s trash away along with mine, and get us each a fresh beer. “Thanks for being here tonight.”

He rises to his feet. “Hey, no problem.” His right hand disappears into his pocket, and a second later he hands me his business card. “Here’s my direct cell. Let’s talk late next week when I’m back from China. I’d love to see what we could do with some fresh talent helping us.”

I nod. “I’d like that.” My pocket is full of business cards and promises for follow-up meetings. I can’t recall the last time business has been so good.

Toward the end of the evening, I’m itching to send everyone off with their parting gifts—goodie bags filled with fine French chocolates and a gift card for a massage on us—and get Olivia alone. But there are still at least a dozen people here, along with a couple of corporate bigwigs jumping in a bouncy house.

I chuckle and head over to sit with Olivia. She’s abandoned her heels and is perched on a bar stool deep in conversation with Estelle from Parrish Footwear, the woman who, when we were first dating, Olivia thought I was flirting with at a business dinner. It’s good to see them getting along like old friends. Laughing and smiling as they talk.

Just before I reach them, Olivia rises from her stool, excusing herself to take a phone call. I’m not sure what could be so important that she’d cut a client meeting short, so I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her brow furrows and she paces back and forth as she listens to the caller on the other end.

If this is Bradford fucking Daniels again, so help me God . . .

“Babe?” I place my hand on her wrist.

“I’ll be right there. Thanks.” She hangs up and swallows hard.

“Snowflake?”

“It’s my dad.” Her voice cracks ever so slightly. But that small loss of control tells me everything. If she can’t keep her cool in public, in front of so many guests . . . whatever she just heard must be devastating.

I know that she’d never be able to live with herself if she broke down within earshot of our guests. With my hand on her lower back, I quickly usher her from the banquet room and out the front doors.

Once we’re outside, she inhales a huge breath and tears spill from her eyes.

“What is it?”

“His nurse called. He’s being rushed to the ER. He fell and hit his head.”

Shit. Ever since Fred’s final treatment failed a few weeks ago, his health has been getting progressively worse. So much so that he rarely comes into the office anymore, and he hired a nurse to watch over him at home.

“You need to go,” I say. “Go to the hospital and be with him.”

“Are you sure? What about . . .” Her gaze drifts back to the party, where we can still hear the band playing and the guests’ happy chatter.

I grip her shoulders and lean in to press a kiss to her lips. “I’ve got this. We’re wrapping up anyway.”

She nods and wipes away the tears that keep escaping despite her bravery.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I offer.

She shakes her head. “No. Make sure you see everyone out and follow up on every deal.”

A smile crosses my lips. “Of course I will. I’ll see you at home later?”

“Yes, I think so.”

We share a small, meaningful kiss, and then she’s gone.

Chapter Nine

Olivia

Two weeks and what feels like fifty gallons of coffee later, Noah and I have closed all the deals we started at our big beach bash.

It seems like half of New York City is still buzzing about that party. Our company’s financial future is about as secure as it’s going to get—we’ve got a dozen fat new contracts and three times as many promising network contacts to tap into for years to come. Tate & Cane Enterprises is doing amazing. I should be on top of the world . . .

Except this morning, I woke up to a voice mail from the hospital. Dad’s health has taken a sudden turn for the worse.

Two weeks ago, on the evening of the big networking gala, Dad was apparently working late in his study—which he shouldn’t have been doing, damn it, but I’ve never been able to keep him away from his job. He fell down in the hallway somehow, probably on the way to the bathroom. He either stumbled or just plain passed out. His night nurse found him lying unconscious and called 911.

That night, it was all I could do to keep from bursting into terrified, angry tears as I drove at top speed toward the hospital. Every horrible thing that might have happened to Dad flashed through my brain in a gruesome slide show. God only knew how long he was lying there on the carpet. He could have died right then.

Screw the party—I should have been there. I should have checked in on him more often. Hell, I should have found a way to keep his stubborn ass in bed in the first place. If I’d just tried harder, looked after him more closely, been a better daughter . . .

A blaring honk jerks my attention back to the road. I try to concentrate on getting to the hospital again without adding another family casualty to the mix. Those self-blaming thoughts were unproductive two weeks ago, and brooding over them now is no better. But they still gnaw at the back of my mind.

After what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes, I reach the hospital. I park in the rear lot, shove a handful of quarters into the meter, and rush inside. I check in with the front desk nurse, but I don’t need her to direct me to Dad’s room in the oncology wing anymore. I know its location by heart now: third floor, turn right twice, last door on the left, number 302. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I take the stairs two at a time.