For God’s sake, is my libido ever going to shut up? Now is really not the fucking time. Ugh, wait. Poor choice of words.

“You still there, sweetie?” Dad asks.

I blink back to reality. Shit, I got lost in thought again. My thoughts are pretty easy to get lost in these days.

“Sorry. I just . . . I don’t really know where to start.” That’s definitely no lie.

“I’ll pour us some coffee.” He leans forward with a grunt.

“No, Dad, don’t get up. I can do it.” I stand up and walk to the sideboard to turn on the single-cup machine.

He lets out a small sigh through his nose. “I know I’m no spring chicken anymore, but—”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Dad is proud and I don’t want to make him feel helpless, but I know damn well how much pain and fatigue he’s dealing with. And to be honest, I’m desperate to get off my ass and do something. Anything at all. I just need action.

So I busy myself with the coffee. Hazelnut for me, Colombian dark roast for Dad. Sweetener but no cream for me, cream but no sweetener for Dad. The ritual itself is almost as soothing as the rich scents that steam from our mugs.

I hoped that talking would come easier like this, with my hands occupied and my back turned so I don’t have to worry what crosses my face—or what might cross Dad’s. But the words that leap from my mouth take us both by surprise.

“Why did Bill Tate do this to us?”

Dad sighs again. This one is loud, heavy, rising from deep within his chest.

My mouth snaps open to apologize. But then I close it again. Because you know what? Even if I never intended to demand answers—fuck it, I really do want some. In fact, I have a right to them. I’m the one who was forced to choose between the frying pan and the fire, after all.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Dad says. “We never imagined it would turn out this way. We wrote those clauses together, into both our wills, because we wanted to keep T&C in the family, and we knew you kids were meant to be together.”

I nod a little impatiently as I hand him his coffee mug and sit down with mine. I already know most of this part of the story. A joint venture, in more than one sense of the word.

He takes a sip. “Still, we tried to make sure that you had other options. If you and Noah didn’t want to marry by the time we retired—a day we thought was far in the future—then control would default to the board. And even so, you wouldn’t lose the company. You would have been granted board seats and paid highly from T&C’s profits. So we didn’t make this decision lightly. But we never anticipated . . .”

“That there would be no profits,” I say softly. And maybe no company at all.

“Right. Because everything just happened all at once, with the worst possible timing. Bill’s early death. My cancer . . . and how fast it advanced. T&C lagging behind its competition, falling into the red. The board’s crisis of faith.” Another deep sigh. “We always thought you kids would have so many more years to come around to the idea.”

I know how hard Dad has tried to save this company on his own. He’s worked until his body physically won’t let him anymore. By the time he admitted defeat, the problem had reached do-or-die proportions. I’m not angry with him for that, because I know I wouldn’t have done any different. We’re cut from the same proud, stubborn cloth.

Dad puts down his barely touched coffee with a soft clunk. “I’m not going to be around forever, sweetie.”

I look up, startled at the topic change. He suddenly looks so haggard, it breaks my heart.

“I . . . I know that, Dad, but—”

“You marrying Noah isn’t just for the company’s sake. Who cares about a company if my little girl is unhappy? I trust Noah to take care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of,” I say automatically.

“Everyone needs someone around. I’m not talking about money or power . . . I’m talking about love. A listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. A partner who shares life’s burdens. If I know you have that, sweetie, then I can rest a lot easier.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, washing it down with hot coffee. I don’t want to think about Dad resting.

“Despite everything, I still believe that you and Noah belong together,” Dad continues. “You were made for each other. And you’ll need each other’s strength for what lies ahead. Bill Tate’s will has just given things a little push in the right direction.”

I look down into my mug, the dark liquid glinting under the fluorescent lights. “This still just feels so . . . unreal. I have no idea what to expect. What’s it like to be married?”

I’m not even sure what kind of answer I want to hear. What cute anecdote or pearl of wisdom could possibly reassure me. Everything will be okay. Marriage won’t swallow up your whole life. You can still be yourself—a businesswoman first and a wife second.

“Well, in my experience, it was wonderful.” Dad smiles fondly. “Your mom was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. My rock, my sunshine, my best friend. We weren’t two halves of a whole, we were each our own person, and that’s what made us so amazing when we joined together.” He shakes his head. “I’m no poet, so all I can say is . . . it was magic.”

Magic, huh? I’ll have to take his word for it. My only long-term boyfriend turned out to be a manipulative narcissist, and I’ve never gotten close enough to any other man for the kind of deep bond that my father is trying to describe.