If I Break #4 Shattered Pieces by Portia Moore

Author:Portia Moore [Moore, Portia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Portia Moore Books
Published: 2017-04-29T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Chris

Walking into Crestfield Corporation is surreal—seven floors at the top of one of the tallest buildings in Chicago, people in suits and expensive looking clothing all bustle about, women in heels that look like they should be on the cover of magazines instead of in offices. Glass windows overlooking the waterfront. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen in Madison.

“Mr. Scott, you’re here to see Mr. Crestfield?” a short, cute, blond-haired woman asks me with a bright smile.

“Umm, yeah,” I tell her and she cheerfully gestures for me to follow her.

“I like your haircut.” She seems very lively and animated, and though I don’t remember her, she has obviously seen me before if she is noticing my haircut.

“Uh, thanks.” I follow her down a long hall toward two big glass doors. She swipes a card.

“Well, hello, Collin. You wanted to see me?” My face goes blank when I see who it is, and I look back at the woman who brought me here.

“I meant the other Crestfield,” I tell her and she looks at me baffled.

“But sir, you told me it was a priority to secure you the first meeting available with Mr. Crestfield Sr.,” she stammers. I nod and let out a an exasperated sigh. This meeting must have been Collin’s idea.

“He’ll be fine from here, Stacy.” Dexter gives her a charming smile before she scurries out of the office.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Have a seat.” He gestures to one of the smaller chairs in front of his ginormous desk. My feet feel stuck in place. I haven’t seen him in years. He still looks the same—dressed like a rich man in a cigar commercial. He tilts his head slightly to the right as if questioning who I am and a smile spreads across his face.

“Chris?” he says with a laugh in his voice. I push my hands in the pockets of these too-tight jeans.

“Come now, I’m not the boogeyman.” He lifts a glass of brown liquid to his lips. I swallow hard. There are tons of questions I should be asking this man—this man I’ve only known to detest and be weary of—yet he sits in front of me as if I’m his best friend. I reluctantly take a seat.

“I gather that it’s not you who asked for the meeting with me?” He leans back in his chair. It’s not a surprise that he knows the true nature of my condition. When my dad asked him for his help, of course he’d want to know all of the details and keep track especially since… he’s my biological dad.

“No,” I tell him shortly.

“Well, you have a half hour on my calendar. Most people would sell their first born child for that.” He displays a sly grin. I’ve only met Dexter Crestfield Sr. a few times in my life, and each of those times I’ve never been alone with him. I was always with my parents or a crowd. I study his face this time though, his hair is dark with streaks of grey, but still full and carefully groomed.

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