“Grow. Up.” Darius leaned in. “You’re like a spoiled child. Everyone else is responsible for your mistakes but you.”
“How dare you!”
“Mom never understood you, so she’s the
reason for your multiple affairs.”
“I didn’t have—”
“June never complained, so she’s the reason you didn’t take care of your son.”
“I’d’ve—”
“Instead of blaming them for your failings, you should be thanking them for carrying you all these years.”
“What?”
Darius’s face was hot. His muscles shook. Another Thanksgiving meal wasted. Why had he chosen today to confront his parents?
“It’s obvious from the filth in your apartment that Mom’s been cleaning up after you for the past thirty-four years.”
Simon’s eyes bulged from his head. “That’s bullsh—”
“And despite your lack of attention—or maybe because of it—Noah’s growing into a good man.”
“Don’t talk to me that way. You may be grown, but I’m still your father.” Simon’s voice was rough with anger.
“Then be a role model I can be proud of. Instead I have nightmares of following in your footsteps.”
“You could do a lot worse.”
Simon couldn’t believe his own words, could he?
“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Darius hailed their server for the check. The verdict was in; this was officially the worst Knight family Thanksgiving ever.
CHAPTER 14
Almost twenty minutes after dinner, Irene escorted Bruce into the sitting room, where Peyton waited with her father for their Thanksgiving dessert.
Bruce Grave looked like everything he wanted to be: wealthy and well connected. His lightweight V-neck oatmeal sweater and skinny gold slacks draped his model-slender frame. His soft, ebony curls gleamed. His fair skin was still ruddy from the cold.
Peyton had settled onto one of the pale silver–cushioned armchairs. Her father, dressed in a simple black cashmere sweater and black pants, had taken the other. That left the settee for Bruce and Irene.
Darkness had fallen outside. Carlson had pulled the heavy cream drapes closed over the room’s two windows. A standing floor lamp provided ample light. But the room still felt shrouded in secrets and shadows.
Carlson and Irene appeared watchful as Peyton came face-to-face with the man who was her ex-fiancé—and who would remain that way. Bruce’s expression was guarded. Whose idea was it that he try to reconcile with her? Was Irene that determined to get a husband for Peyton? Did Carlson want his protégé to take care of her? She could almost feel sorry for Bruce. Neither Carlson nor Irene took failure well.
“Hello, Bruce.” Peyton slipped her hand into the right front pocket of her cotton-blend pants and brushed it over the ring box.
His brown eyes took in her snow-white crewneck sweater and leaf-green, straight-leg pants “You look lovely.”
Too little, too late.
Bruce waited for Irene to settle onto the spindly silver settee before taking the space beside her. He played the gentleman when it suited him. Pity it didn’t suit him more often.
Images of Darius giving her his coat when they were trapped in the archives, escorting her to her door each time he brought her home, tucking Ms. Helen’s hand into the crook of his arm to help her to the parking lot ran through Peyton’s mind. He was chivalrous to his bones.
Peyton blinked. The images disappeared and she was back in her parents’ salon. “Shouldn’t you be spending Thanksgiving with your own family?”