Annika took another bolstering sip of wine. He didn’t scare her. Break Up might be having their day in the sun right now, but Make Up was scrappy. Make Up had a tech magic that would appeal to the investors, especially Lionel Wakefield. Make Up was about bettering the world. Surely a philanthropic billionaire would see that.

Taking a deep breath, Annika picked up her phone and dialed her father. She called him once a week, a practice that had started when she’d moved away for college and felt guilty for leaving him all alone.

“Ani,” he said, using her childhood nickname, a smile in his voice. It was pronounced Ah-nee, and it made her feel younger instantly, safe and warm.

“Hi, Daddy.” She could picture him at home in his cavernous study, a glass of expensive scotch at his elbow while he read some dusty old medical journal or other. He had a view of the Hollywood Hills, with nary a parking lot in sight.

“Are you coming home this Saturday for dinner?” he asked.

“Like always.”

“Excellent. I’m making kalua! I had an underground oven installed in the backyard.”

Annika grinned. “An underground oven? Really?” Cooking was her dad’s passion; he loved foodie things more than most people loved their families. His version of a midlife crisis involved not overpriced sports cars but wine cellars and wok ranges.

“Yes, of course. It’s all the rage with the homesteaders, you know. People DIY those in an afternoon.”

“Did you DIY yours?”

“Well, not exactly. But Mike did.”

Annika snorted. Mike was their handyman, who’d indulged many of her dad’s phases. “Right. Well, I can’t wait to see it.”

He made a soft groaning noise, and Annika could picture him leaning back in his leather armchair, ready to have a good chat. Her heart squeezed with affection.

“How was your day, Daddy?”

“Good, good. Medicine still holds its allure for me. It’s a fascinating field of study.”

The unspoken addendum sat between them: “It’s not too late for you. Medical school will change your life for the better.”

He continued, “You know that surgery I was telling you about? The six-year-old with brain cancer?”

“Yeah?”

“Went without a hitch.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Everyone just about cheered when he pulled through it.”

As an anesthesiologist, her dad didn’t have to know much about his patients, but he made it a point to really get to know them anyway. He said the day he dehumanized the people on his table was the day he turned in his medical license.

“That’s awesome! But I’m really not surprised.”

He grunted, pleased. “So, tell me. How’s the business? Oh, congratulations, by the way. I saw your email about the piece in that online magazine—what’s it called? Wonder Woman?”