He stills, his posture straight as his eyes fall away from me. ‘You should talk to him about it.’
‘I’m talking to you.’
Not to mention that it’s the last thing I want to raise with Nate. He went off the rails for two years after the company collapsed, drinking heavily, socialising day and night—he was a mess. No one talks about it. Least of all me.
‘If we’re potentially going to work together, I want to hear your version of events.’
‘It’s not my place.’
‘The hell it’s not! You left when the going got tough—is that how it was? Because that’s exactly how my family see it. Things got a touch hard and you legged it, leaving them to pick up the pieces.’
Colour seeps into his cheekbones, his knuckles whiten around the mug he still holds, and his eyes harden as they land on me.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then tell me—give me your side and I’ll consider you as equally as I am everyone else.’
‘My company stands for itself. I’m not justifying the past to you.’
‘You told me Friday night that you make it your business to know all there is about the companies you wish to work with and the people who run them. This is me doing the same due diligence.’
He leans forward in his chair and I think he is about to speak. I hold my breath, waiting. This is it: the truth, his side to balance out theirs.
‘Thank Clare for the coffee.’
What?
He places his mug on the desk and gets to his feet.
I stand abruptly. ‘You can’t leave.’
‘Changed your mind already?’
There’s humour in his words but not in his eyes.
‘We have things to discuss, to go over,’ I say.
‘It’s all there in the email. The last attachment details the arrangement I propose. I think you’ll find it fair.’
‘But—’
‘Speak to Nate, Eva, or drop the past.’
His tone brooks no argument, but how can I tell him I don’t dare have it out with my brother for fear of a relapse?
‘My business references speak for themselves. Speak to anyone about Waring Holdings and they will put your mind at ease...if it’s truly the business you’re worried about.’
He lifts his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugs it on, taking up his laptop and case.
‘My number is in the email—call me when you’re ready to talk business.’
And with that he leaves. I haven’t even managed a goodbye. I’m still floundering under the mess that is the past and the present, my family and my business—and, if I’m truly honest, my heart.
To think I had believed it possible to be around him again and keep it tucked away was ridiculous.
Maybe in some way I hoped the past would protect me, keep me safe from falling again. And maybe it would have, if not for the fact that the past as I know it—as my family know it—could well be based on a lie. Or a clever manipulation of the truth. My brother was a pro at doing both when he wanted to.
And Lucas’s words in my kitchen about his ten-year wait... They told me there was more to his rejection than I believed all those years ago.