The slam of a car door outside caught her attention, and a moment later the doorbell rang. As soon as Libby stepped into the hallway she could see the shiny red paint on her father's convertible through the front window. Perfect. A heaping of fatherly guilt was exactly what she needed right now-not.
She opened the door but blocked the entrance. "Dad."
"Is that thug boyfriend of yours here to kick me out this time?" her father drawled.
Libby pursed her lips and stood rooted to the ground. "No."
"Do I need to ask for an invitation inside my own property?"
Ah, that old chestnut. The quicker Libby Gal Cocktails took off the sooner she could take that important step toward independence, getting out from under her father's thumb. She held the door open and waited for him to enter without saying the words, since it was clear he wasn't going to leave quietly.
"What do you want? I'm going away for the weekend, and I need to leave soon." She stood in the entrance and pressed her fingers to her temples.
"You used to speak to me as though I were the most important person in the world," her father said, looking-for possibly the first time ever-regretful. "What changed?"
"Maybe it's because I realized I wasn't the most important person in your world." She swallowed, blinking as tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. "And that I never would be."
"That hurts, Libby." He shook his head. "Don't you see I want what's best for you?"
"How do you know what's best for me? I wonder at times if you know anything about me."
The muscle in his neck corded. "How can you say that?"
"What's my favorite food?" Her voice cracked and she cursed herself internally. "Or my favorite color?"
"Pink?" He shrugged. "What does it matter?"
"My favorite color is green, Dad. It always has been." She let out a sigh. "It matters because sometimes I think you wish I'd never been born."
The words sucked the life out of the room. Admitting her longest-held, most shameful fear aloud made the world feel colorless.
Her father blinked, genuine shock registering on his face. He brushed a hand through his hair, the mostly gray strands slipping through his fingers and springing back into place. He'd been a redhead, too, many moons ago. As a young girl she'd loved that they shared such a distinctive feature, like it was proof that she was his daughter. Proof her young heart had desperately needed when he acted as though she meant nothing.
"You know that your mother and I weren't planning to have children, but that doesn't mean I regret it."
"Don't you? I can't remember a time when you and Mum didn't fight or say horrible things to each other when you thought I couldn't hear."
His thick brows wrinkled. "Your mother and I should never have gotten married. We did it to provide for you, but I fear it only made your childhood harder."
"But then you both left, and you got remarried." The words tumbled like an avalanche. "You moved on … from me."
"I never moved on from you, and neither did your mother."
Libby's head pounded, the pain from her lonely childhood coursing through her body as fresh as it was when she found out her mother was having another child. A child who would have the happy life and the happy parents she'd been denied.
"Yes, you did. You moved away and I had to live with mum and her new husband. Then she sent me to you when she got pregnant, like I was being replaced. Instead of being my dad you sent me away as well!"
"Boarding school was a good option for you. I knew it would set you up for success. It wasn't because I didn't want you around." He shook his head as though she was talking gibberish. "You had so much potential, I wanted you to harness it. I wanted you to do great things."
"And to reach my potential I have to go back to med school?"
Silence. "What's the point of making flavored alcohol?"
Libby blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. The cold creep of doubt coiled in the pit of her stomach, winding its way up and over her heart.
"My product is fun, it's girlie. It celebrates women."
"By getting them drunk on cheap toxic cordials?"
She reeled as if he'd slapped her across the face.
"If you finished med school you could save people's lives, Libby. Isn't that a more worthy dream to have?"
She knew that her business was so much more than her father would ever see. She'd already drawn up plans to use her business plan to help other women realize their dream of working for themselves, of being financially independent. Her chest squeezed.
How could she ever show other women how to be independent when she lived in her father's house and had a fake boyfriend? In her desperation to succeed she'd lost sight of why she wanted to run her own business in the first place.
"I understand I'm living in your house, and I'm grateful for having a roof over my head. But that doesn't mean you get to control me or choose my fate." She squared her shoulders and sucked in a deep breath. "Your dream is not my dream. I hope one day you can accept that."
It shouldn't get to her-she'd seen him belittle her mother a thousand times before-but it hurt as much as if he'd kicked her to the ground. She had no hope of pleasing him, not now. Not ever.
Which was precisely the reason she'd never put herself in that position again. It was easy to avoid being hurt if she did her own thing, if she lived life for herself. Alone.
People couldn't hurt you if you kept them at a distance.
Paul carried box after box out to the car; who knew there could be so much "stuff" to take to a wedding. Everything had been delivered to his parents' house, and he was doing his brotherly duty to help get it all to the vineyard where the wedding would be held. Bonbonnière, place cards, table decorations, and God only knew what else.
He was sure, despite his limited experience, that the key to a happy marriage wasn't finding the perfect font for the seating lists.
"You look very deep in thought." His mother appeared beside him holding a small clear box with the wedding cake topper. She leaned in to his boot and tucked it into a carton containing other random bits and pieces.
"I was wondering if all weddings require three cars full of material items. I would have thought the bride and groom would be enough." He packed the last box in and checked to make sure everything was secure. The last thing he needed was to break two hundred tiny bottles of vodka.
"It's easy to get caught up in the details," she said, smiling wistfully. "Our wedding cake had over a hundred individual flowers made out of icing. It looked so beautiful."
"Yes, but did it taste good?"
"Who knows? I was so nervous I didn't eat a thing all night. I almost fainted after we got back to the hotel because I was so hungry."
"What a waste."
She patted his arm and shook her head. "It wasn't a waste. I wouldn't change a thing if I had to do it over again."
She hovered, her hands fidgeting with the fine gold chain at her neck. The cross dangling from it glinted in the afternoon light, winking at him as if it had a secret. That could only mean one thing. She had something important to say.
"Spit it out, Ma."
"I'm really glad you and Libby are getting engaged." Her eyes glimmered, her fingers fluttering at her neck. "It makes me so happy to see my boys finding love."
Shit. He'd been avoiding this conversation with her ever since Libby had confessed her little white lie … well, her small lie amongst a much bigger one.
"She wasn't supposed to say anything-it's not official yet." He thrust his fingers through his hair and tried to come up with a way to get out of talking to his mother about it. "Anyway, this is Des and Gracie's weekend. I don't want to steal their thunder."
"You're not. Des is so happy for you."
He sighed. "You told him? I thought Libby said you'd promised to keep it a secret."
Her lips pulled up into a sheepish smile. "It's just one person."
"So you didn't tell Dad then? Or Zia Marcella?" He raised a brow. "Or Mrs. Lawson from down the street?"
"I didn't tell Mrs. Lawson," she admitted. "But yes, I told your father and Zia Marcella. I can't help it, I'm so excited."
"You promised Libby and then you went against your word."
"Oh, do you think she'll be mad?" His mother looked genuinely stricken. "I thought it wouldn't matter if you were planning it already."
It wouldn't, if they were in a real relationship or had any intention of ever getting married. But they'd be splitting up in a few days' time … just as soon as the wedding was over and his business idea had come to fruition.