Maybe I should take a page from my uncle Theo’s book and move to the other side of the mountain, far away from Dad. Then I wouldn’t have to see him on a daily basis, constantly reminded of how wrong he did me when I was Willa’s age.

Willa.

Fuck.

The last thing I need is to have a stupid conversation with Dad while thinking of Willa’s tight, young body I remember with precise detail from those photos.

So much for that.

At least having to speak to Dad will kill my stupid boner.

I pull into my garage, attempting to keep my anger at bay. If living on the same street wasn’t bad enough, he infects my life as though he has the right to.

Hell, I suppose he does.

This is his town after all.

Sucking in a few deep breaths, I attempt to calm myself. Talking to Dad while I’m on edge is never a good idea. I’ll say rude shit and he’ll remind me of his authority over me. Jamie or Hugo will get involved, both of them peacemakers, and I’ll end up backing off like I always do. The chip on my shoulder will grow and the cycle will continue.

I step into the house from the garage to the scent of coffee. Taking my time, I pull off my coat and hang it, along with my laptop bag, on a hook before making my way into the kitchen. Dad—also dressed in an immaculate suit—is seated at the bar.

“Afternoon, Cal.”

“Dad.”

I toss my keys on the counter and then set to making myself a cup. Dad’s stare bores into me. For him to show up at my house like this, it means either he wants something or he’s here to demand something.

“It’s been a long day,” I say once my cup is brewed and I’ve dumped enough sugar in it to make my teeth fall out. “What do you need?”

Dad chuffs and sets his cup down on the black-and-white granite with a clink. He stretches his arms out in front of him, loosely threading his fingers together. His titanium wedding ring glints in the overhead lights, always mocking me.

“Have you spoken to Hugo?”

“About Spencer?”

Dad smirks. He doesn’t look a day over forty, often getting confused as our brother rather than our father. As if he needs anything else to make his head swell.

“Spencer. Ahh, that boy. So much like you at that age.”

Spencer is a shit starter. We both know this. Dad’s dig doesn’t hit where he intends it to. I’m able to ignore it, quirking an impatient brow at him to move the conversation along.

“No, Cal,” Dad continues. “About Washington State Attorney General.”