Unbreak My Heart (Rough Riders Legacy #1)

Charity this, charity that. Caterers, florists, scheduled luncheons.

Yawn.

Bored women with nothing better to do than decide how to spend hubby’s money on pet causes while indulging in a three-martini lunch with their other bored society friends.

Cynical?

Yep.

I vaguely remembered my Grandma Daniels encouraging my mother to become involved with service organizations. Early in my parents’ marriage my mother had embraced the idea of being the wife of Gavin Daniels, heir to a real estate company. She’d spent time at my grandparents’ country club. She’d tried to look the part of the corporate wife. Problem was, she hadn’t acted like a corporate wife. Her infidelities embarrassed my father—personally and professionally—and he’d cut his losses with her early on.

Luckily my relationship with him hadn’t been a casualty of the demise of their marriage. At least I’d grown up with one stable parent who proved that unconditional love exists. I was very proud of the fact that I am my father’s daughter.

That’s why I was wrestling with my decision on whether to leave DPM.

Phyllis wasn’t pressuring me. I’d had a text from Rory asking if I’d made a decision. I still hadn’t mentioned anything to Boone about the offer to run PCE. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. I’d just never been in a relationship where I could discuss issues in my professional life. I saw myself as captain of my own ship. Asking for advice almost seemed like asking permission and that was something I wouldn’t do.

Break out into a chorus of “I Am Woman” why don’t you?

That thought made me smile.

My smile faded when I remembered the whole debacle with Greg’s assistant Melissa this week and her refusal to stay on at DPM. It’d hit me… How could I, in good conscience, take a position at PCE advocating for all women in business when I couldn’t help even one woman in my own business?

I couldn’t.

I needed to fix things at DPM first. Figure out a way to effect change from within and earn the respect of the guys I worked with. That would be the best use of the skills I’d learned at PCE and there was no better proving ground for leadership.

Made up your mind, just like that? Would you stay in that position if it wasn’t a family business? If you weren’t worried about disappointing your father?

No, I wouldn’t stay at DPM. I would’ve taken the job at PCE the moment Phyllis offered it to me.

This wishy-washy back-and-forth stuff…no wonder I hadn’t talked to Boone. I changed my mind every five minutes.

Armed with the knowledge that nothing would get resolved today, I focused on the party, hanging back to watch my beautiful, blonde mother. She’d already claimed the spotlight. She looked stunning in a dark teal pantsuit that hit the mark between classy and trendy. For once she wasn’t trying to appear younger and hipper than anyone else in the room. But she’d always been a chameleon, changing her appearance and her personality to fit the social situation or the man she was with. Being Barnacle Bill’s babe motivated her to ditch the hair extensions, the skinny jeans, the bohemian jewelry and embrace the upper crust’s idea of respectability and act her age.

I couldn’t help but wonder how much she hated that. Or how long this phase would last.

I’d gone through phases of my own with her. In my childhood she’d used me as a pawn or a wedge against my dad—not that I’d known it at the time. Then in my preteen and early teen years, she’d morphed into being my friend more than a parent. We shopped. We did all the girlfriend things she should’ve been doing with her own friends and not her fourteen-year-old daughter. She attempted to turn me against my father with outright lies and manipulation. It still caused me a pang of shame to admit she had succeeded on a few occasions, convincing me to think the worst of my dad.

By the time I’d grown into my body and my looks—her words, not mine—she encouraged open defiance of my father’s rules. She’d let me skip school when she had custody of me. She’d let me throw parties on the weekends and provide booze for us. My friends were in awe of her; she was the coolest mom ever. So it was a blow to my fifteen-year-old pride that they preferred to hang out with her more than with me. She’d complain if I attempted to do homework, reminding me that men prized beauty and physical desirability over brains. Another shameful thing I’d actually believed for a time.

During those formative middle teen years when she claimed a girl “needed her mother” she took my dad to court, demanding full custody of me. I’d bought into her false flattery and her promise to always be there for me. Yet, when I’d ended up in jail for shoplifting, she hadn’t been around at all. My need for her approval had turned me into her mini-clone; an entitled brat with no thought to the future beyond next season’s fashion trends.