Zander
I had never asked another man for permission to do anything in my adult life.
That realization became increasingly irritating as I sat across from Papa at a corner table in his café while he stared at me like I had just announced I wanted to borrow money.
The breakfast crowd was gone, Gina was safely at Preston Enterprises working in merchandising, and Mama had conveniently disappeared into the kitchen after I told her I needed five minutes alone with my father. Judging by the complete lack of noise coming from behind those doors, she was probably listening.
Papa folded his arms.
“Well?”
“I’m getting there.”
“You asked me to sit. I sit. Now you stare at me.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You are thirty-four years old. You should know how to talk by now.”
This was going well.
I reached
