I can’t take this anymore.
The whole food poisoning incident sticks in my mind like a thorn.
I couldn’t sleep last night, tossing and turning and so restless to do something. What can I do, though?
I don’t work for him anymore.
I’m not in his life.
I can’t even do damage control for a man I sent into exile.
Ugh.
He may have ripped my heart out, but Brock doesn’t deserve this.
I don’t want him going through it alone.
Then I remember him telling me that his grandparents made a rule of using locally sourced vendors whenever possible. That’s why he never believed the food was bad at the Winthrope Chicago.
Is that a clue?
I’m still wondering when I find Dad on the couch, sipping a coffee from those Lanai beans I think he’s the only one drinking.
“It’s not Trader Joe’s but it isn’t half bad,” he says, holding up his mug in salute.
“I’m glad.” I sit down beside him. “Have you heard about what happened at the Winthrope?”
“The big food poisoning meltdown? Yeah, those damn commercials are everywhere—‘If you attended an event at Winthrope Seattle this weekend and experienced flu-like symptoms, call us.’”
Ouch.
“The ambulance chasers are out hard,” I agree. “It doesn’t make sense, though. Winthrope goes through a crazy detailed process to make sure they’re always serving the best. All local vendors, too.”
Dad nods, taking another pull off his cup.
“I hate to see it. That Winthrope boy seems like a good guy—”
I laugh. “Dad, he’s not a boy. He’s over thirty years old.”
He shrugs. “Well, I still sure as hell wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. A lawsuit this big is gonna be hell on his company. Good thing you walked away when you did or you might’ve gotten axed, honey.”
“Yeah, well, just out of morbid curiosity… Do you think you could find out who sold the oysters? You used to know everybody down by the docks.”
He pauses mid-slurp, looking at me over the top of his cup.
“I can ask around, Piper. But I know every veteran fisherman around these parts and no one would’ve sold him bad oysters intentionally. You sell bad stuff, you get people sick, and word gets out. Pretty soon, you’re selling your boat and moving to the Sonoran desert. Goodbye, livelihood.” Dad slaps the table. “Nah, nobody would’ve risked it. Plus, selling local, if anybody gets sick you gotta face their family. Whatever mucked things up happened somewhere else down the chain. I’m positive.”
I nod slowly, taking it in.
“Okay, but they might know something, right? I guarantee Brock doesn’t have time to vet drivers for this. Something stinks here. He agonized so much over that convention and even approved the final menu. No one at Winthrope Resorts or the Seattle branch would just let bad food slide.”
“You think he was sabotaged?” It’s like I can see the lightbulb switch on over his head.
“His other properties were being hit. He freaked out and asked me to leave, thinking this competitor would come after me. I thought it was far-fetched, but now—” I stop.
My heart knots as I come face-to-face again with the incredibly stupid reason why I lost the best man who ever happened to me.
“That what you’re fighting over?” Dad asks with a snort.
I nod.
“Ah, you young folks and your pride. Give me a couple hours and I’ll see what I can do,” he promises.
“Thanks, Dad!” I stand and start for my room.
“Hey, where are you going?” he calls.
“To call Brock.”
Dad jumps up so fast I look back.
“What are you doing?”
“Going down to the docks. It’s about time I see some old friends and if I’m gonna be your mole, it’s better face-to-face.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask quietly.
“Babe, I’m not a sick man anymore. Quit your worrying.”
“I know you aren’t sick, but that’s a lot of walking. I was kind of hoping you’d take it easy for a few more weeks. You haven’t even had your physical therapy follow-up yet…”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Could you take Maisy with?”
“Nope. She’s out with Trina at a movie and won’t be back for a little while. I don’t need no babysitter.”
“If you wait, I’ll come,” I offer. “I just need to call him quick.”
He chuckles. “I promise you it won’t be a quick call. Anyhow, I’ll drive down there if it makes you feel better. Won’t do the walking till I have to.”
Oof.
Honestly, it’s better than the long walk, but not ideal. If he has a surprise muscle spasm behind the wheel that might not end well. I start to say as much, but he stops me.
“Piper girl, listen. You’ve taken care of me for ages. Hell of a role reversal when I’m your old man, but you had to, and you went above and beyond. I’ll always appreciate that. But I’m okay now thanks to you.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t do much.”
Dad flashes a knowing grin.
“Sweetheart, your billionaire boy did it for you, not me. That was all you.”
“Brock did the heavy lifting,” I admit. “I can’t take much credit.”
“What you can take the credit for is being the kind of girl who makes a man willing to take on a whole family mess.”
Oh, that hurts.
But I’m not that girl, am I?
I’m the bitch who made him speak to me by penguin.
And isn’t that what this is all about?
Yes, I’m the kind of girl he sleeps with and dresses up real pretty. But not the kind of woman he can ever respect enough to say “I love you” and let me make my own decisions.
I slip inside my room and shut the door.
I have to keep moving before I let these feelings weigh me down.
It takes a few minutes to work up the nerve to reach for the phone.
He usually answers his work number the fastest, but this time it goes straight to voicemail.
What the hell? Brock never turns off his work phone.
I call his personal cell next, but it’s offline too.
Woof.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I scroll through the phone and find a number only Fyo, his grandparents, and I have. I call Brock Winthrope’s landline at home that’s mostly used by his staff for housekeeping and deliveries.
Voicemail again.
I’m shocked that I don’t feel relieved when I don’t have to speak to him.
His recorded voice alone leaves goosebumps.
When I pull my phone back, my fingers tremble. I try one more time, wait for the voicemail beep, and then say, “Brock, it’s Piper. I have a few ideas about how to help your situation. Contact me when you can. Thanks.”
Then I collapse on my bed, trying not to bleed out my nerves.
I stare at my phone between naps, wondering if he’ll call back. When he doesn’t, I go to Maisy’s room. She must be home, judging by the soft sound of her singing to herself.
“I did something stupid.”
“What else is new?” She laughs.
“Mais, I’m being serious.”
She drops her phone on the bed beside her. “What now?”
“I called Brock.”
“Finally! Um, why is that stupid again?”
I glare at her. “Because we—you know we’re not a thing anymore.”
Maisy rolls over and laughs harder, wiping her face before she says, “Come on! You know he’d like to be ‘a thing’ again with so many special deliveries. I don’t get why you’re freaking out.”
“He hasn’t come by for a few days, right?”
“His ego can only take so much and he needed a break. Didn’t seem like you were budging and I don’t know how he’ll ever top that penguin.”
“I’m not. I just called because of the food poisoning. He saved Dad’s life and I’m obligated to help—if I can,” I rush out.
She laughs harder. “Wait. So, why are you upset that he hasn’t been around if you’re still ghosting him?”
“…he didn’t answer my call.”
“Aren’t billionaires pretty busy? When we stayed with him before Mexico, I got the impression he works a lot. Like it’s pretty much all he does, right?”
I nod. “But he doesn’t keep his work phone off.”
“Maybe he’s in a meeting,” she says flippantly.
“No. His personal phone is off, too.”
“If his phones are off, how would he know you even called?”
I bite my lip. “I called his home phone too.”
“What, like a landline? That’s so 1995.” She sweeps stray hair out of her face. “I dunno, Pippy. I don’t think he’s ignoring you.”
“I wouldn’t care. I just wanted to help.”
I sink down at the end of her bed, face in my hands, the entire world spinning.
God, I don’t know what to do.
How can I help with anything when he won’t even talk to me?
“Girls? Piper?” Dad calls sometime later. “I’ve got something for you.”
“What’s he talking about?” Maisy asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head and open her door, stepping into the living room.
Maisy follows.
“What did you find out?” I ask almost breathlessly.
“The guys who brought in the oysters were from a ship I know. Captain Pike and I go way back. They were able to tell me quite a bit, actually,” he says proudly.
“How do you know it was the same batch?” I ask.
“It was the largest haul that day—the only one sold in a single batch. Special order from Bellingham. There were two other semi-large batches that day but they were sold off piecemeal. And this ship is known for damn good quality. They sell direct to market right off the pier whenever they don’t sell out up north. A lot of restaurants in town rush over to buy from Captain Pike daily. One of the guys remembered something weird about this batch.”
“Weird?”
Dad nods. “The whole batch was bought up by a big client with a caterer who booked a local shipping company to pick it up. But they sent some kids in a van to pick it up. And the van was sporting a bike shop logo.”
Oh my God.
I feel like the floor just dropped out, confirming my worst suspicions.
I swallow hard. “What shop? Any idea?”
“The van had a red logo that said Seattle’s Best Wheels. The oysters were packed on ice, but even then they can’t be out for more than a couple hours in the summer heat. They’ll go bad in no time, and with some bike shop punks handling them in a vehicle that isn’t even refrigerated right—”
“Holy crap!” I shake my head. “Yeah, no. No. Nobody from Winthrope or any company they’d hire ever would’ve sent random kids to pick up oysters for an event this big. I worked there long enough and visited enough properties to know. It just didn’t happen,” I say, my voice quivering with conviction.
“Well, only one thing to do now. Let’s scope out that bike shop,” Dad says firmly.
I nod.
“Let me get my shoes on!” Maisy squeals, always game for any drama.
It’s a quick ride over to Seattle’s Best Wheels, thankfully.
By the time we’re pulling into the parking lot, I’m a nervous wreck, this seething mix of anger and fear and outright disgust curdling my belly.
Dad kills the engine and looks at me, waiting for my input.
“…I’m not sure what to say when I go in, honestly. It’s not like they’ll just admit to mishandling a bunch of oysters and making over a hundred people sick. This place doesn’t look like it could handle a single lawsuit.”
“Let me do it,” he growls.
“Dad, no. It’s my job. But you can come with for moral support,” I say, finding my courage.
He nods and we all go inside.
A short, grey-haired man works behind the counter. “Can I help you folks find anything?”
“Yeah, one of my buddies told me some kids with a red van work here and they do deliveries,” Dad says.
“Oh, yes. We mostly use the van for bike drops or repair pickups, but sometimes Zack makes extra deliveries for cash. He’s a good kid. He’s right out back if you need help with anything.”
Dad smiles.
“It’s a curio cabinet. Real big. I can’t lift it because of my busted back,” he says, wincing as he hunches over.
The man nods. “Well, you’re in the right place. He has a couple friends who help with big jobs like that, and their prices are pretty reasonable. Just walk around the building. You’ll see his van out back. If he’s not outside, knock on the window. Sometimes he’s playing with his phone or catching a quick catnap inside.” The man shrugs. “We were all eighteen once.”
Dad chuckles. “I understand.”
Once we’re out the door, I say, “Now what?”
“I’ve got this,” Maisy says.
I look at her incredulously. “What are you going to do?”
“He’s eighteen. I’m seventeen. I’ll look way more chill than some old people getting in his face.”
Her logic seems silly but I can’t find any fault.
So we all pile back in the car and I pull around to the van in the back. I’m not about to let my little sister go around that corner by herself, just in case this goes disastrously wrong.
Sure enough, there’s a tall, lanky kid with dark hair and a sleeve tattoo leaning against a red van with a cigarette stuffed in his mouth. The doors on the back are open like he’s been cleaning it.
Maisy gets out of the car casually. I roll the windows down so I can hear what they’re saying.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” The boy looks up and smiles, clearly enjoying what he sees.
“So, um, the guy in the shop said you help people move big stuff sometimes?”
“Aw, shit. My dad needs to quit telling people that. I was helping people move furniture for a while, but I’m off that backbreaking stuff. Mostly.” He looks her up and down. “I mean, I can make an exception. I like the odd jobs these days—flowers, packages, food. They’re more likely to pay better and be an easier job than humping a piano up three flights of stairs.”
Maisy laughs. “Cool, yeah! So you’ve been working with food, huh? I bet that’s pretty intense. Those orders must get huge.”
“Yeah.” He lifts the cigarette away and blows a puff of smoke. “So, were you looking for help moving or what? If you’ve got furniture, I can help you out just this once.”
“Well, maybe.” Maisy cocks her head and dips her shoulder. She leans in closer to the van. “Oh, woof! Smells like fish guts. Have you been hauling around manure or something?”
The kid tenses and glares at her.
“Just the usual stuff. Big seafood haul. I’ve been cleaning it out today to get the stink off.” He tosses the cigarette on the concrete and then climbs in the van, grabbing a garden hose. “Tell you what. I’ll let you come back later when it’s all cleaned up. Then you can decide if you want to book the job.”
Maisy steps on the cigarette, looking back at us like she’s unsure.
Enough games.
I spring out of the car and sprint for the van. “Wait. Don’t leave yet, please?”
The kid glares at me from inside and jumps down. Then he whirls past, heading for the driver’s door.
I lunge forward, grabbing his shoulder.
“What the hell? Get off me, you psycho!”
“Sorry.” I let go of the kid, squaring my shoulders. “Look, I’m not after you, Zack. I just need to know what happened with that seafood.”
“Like I should tell your crazy ass anything?” He jerks his head sharply at Maisy. “She already lied about needing help moving when you just wanted to grill me. Fuck off.”
“No one’s grilling you, guy. She just noticed your van smells fishy and asked if you made a seafood delivery.”
“But you want to interrogate me, right? I’m not stupid and I didn’t do anything wrong. Unless you want to come back with the cops and a warrant, I’m done.”
“I believe you,” I say, just as he’s walking away.
He stops and looks back over his shoulder. “Then why the hell do you want to talk to me so bad?”
“Because a lot of people got violently sick. Millions of dollars in damages, and I might know who caused it. I just need more information. You’re not in trouble, I promise. No one is after you.”
He gives me a long, wary glance. “You sure? Shit, I hate that people were puking their guts out. I did the best I could.”
I nod. “I’m sure. I work for the man who’ll have to pay for all the damage even though it wasn’t his fault. If anything, he’ll be thrilled you told the truth. If you want to stay anonymous, I understand. I just want to know what happened.”
He leans back against the van with a sigh and pulls out another cigarette.
“Okay, screw it. So I’ve been doing local deliveries for a while, but nothing that big or that special. When this freight company said they needed an extra truck for a big seafood order, I thought yeah, whatever. Turns out, the order was so big I had to call my friends to help load it by the docks and it still took almost a solid hour.”
Which means he would have only had roughly an hour to get it delivered properly.
“I would have been on time—barely—but then this dude from the catering place called and told me to go to some cheese shop across town. I warned them I’d be pushing it to make the delivery on time. They said if the oysters were on ice, it’d be fine. But the cheese shop was closed, so they sent me to three more stores. All because they needed this specialty crap and the only place that sells it is the shop that was closed. It was this—well, I can’t remember the name, but it’s this weird purple wine-cheese. They have some at the grocery store, but the caterer said that’s a knockoff and if his purple cheese wasn’t made from buffalo milk, it would fuck up his recipe. But they added all of these special requests after I picked up the oysters. When I got to the hotel—”
“The hotel—you mean Winthrope?”
He nods. “Yeah. When I got to the loading dock, the ice was fucking melted. But that’s not my fault! They made me jump through so many extra hoops during rush hour and it was a hot-ass day. When I got there, the same guy who hired me was waiting with the chef. I showed him the ice. He told me not to worry and said he’d take care of it. They even paid me double for making the extra stops. I feel real shitty that people got sick and your boss has to pay. I was worried something like that might happen. That’s why I told him the ice was blown and I didn’t know if he could still use it. So, whatever. If you want the money back…” He reaches into his pocket.
I shake my head.
“Don’t. You did everything you were asked. It’s not your fault someone else spoiled the seafood. But there is one thing you can do. Would you be willing to go on the record? Even anonymously?”
“What record?” he bites off.
I open my purse and pull out a piece of paper and a pen. “I just want you to write down what you just told me and sign your name—”
The kid looks nervous. “That’s not anonymous at all.”
“I won’t show it to anyone but my boss without your approval. Hand to God. But did the person who hired you tell you not to tell anyone?”
He thinks for a second and slowly shakes his head.
“So, why are you worried about it?”
“Because. I don’t want to get thrown under the bus.”
“Not happening. The guy who caused this mess is going down.” I mean it, even if I have to knock him out myself.
The kid nods. He writes out a statement and signs it.
I read it over to make sure it’s everything he just told me.
“Would you be willing to leave your number in case I need to reach out for clarification?”
“Sure.” He jots his number below his signature.
“Thank you.”
“You won’t regret this,” Maisy says, grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you for doing the right thing.”
I grab her arm and gently tug her away.
We don’t have time to stand around while she flirts.
“Mission accomplished, kids. I thought that went pretty well. What’s wrong?” Dad asks once we’re back in the car.
“Loverboy still hasn’t called!” Maisy says.
Dad laughs.
I sigh. “It’s not like that, brat, and you know it.”
“What’s it like then?” she counters.
“I just want to help him with the chaos that’s going on, and now maybe I can.”
“You want to make sure he’s okay, you mean,” Dad adds.
“Yeah,” I say weakly.
And I realize that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
Every single time Brock’s handsome scowly face fills my mind.
Even if he’s the grumpiest McJerkface to ever walk the Earth, I still freaking care.
