Chapter 16
Adam's POV:
I signed off on the quarterly financial report and reached for the next folder.
My desk phone buzzed. "Mr. Sterling, your grandmother is here to see you."
I closed my eyes. "Send her in."
The door swung open before I could brace myself. My grandmother strode in wearing a cream cashmere sweater set and pearls, her white hair perfectly coiffed. She marched straight to the chair across from my desk and sat down like she owned the place.
Which, technically, she did. Twenty percent of it, anyway.
"Adam, darling." She folded her hands in her lap. "Stop working for a moment. I need to speak with you."
I kept my pen moving across the contract. "Can it wait until tonight? I'm in the middle of something."
"No, it cannot wait." She leaned forward. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks."
"I've been busy."
"You're always busy." She reached across the desk and plucked the pen out of my hand.
I didn't look up. Just grabbed another pen from the holder.
She made an exasperated sound and slapped her phone down on top of my contract. "Look at these. Now."
I sighed and picked up the phone. Scrolled through five photos of women in cocktail dresses at various charity galas. Blonde, brunette, redhead. All smiling. All polished. All identical.
I handed it back. "Done."
Her face lit up. "Well? Which one do you like?"
"Grandma." I set my pen down. "You really think I can tell if I like someone from a photo?"
"Oh, don't be difficult." She waved her hand. "I'm not asking you to marry them sight unseen. I'm asking which one you'd like to meet."
"None of them."
Her smile vanished. "Adam, you are twenty-seven years old. You can't keep putting this off."
"I'm not putting anything off. I'm just... not interested."
"You're never interested." She stood up, pacing in front of my desk. "You spend all your time working. You never go out. You never bring anyone home. Your father and I are starting to worry."
I almost laughed. "Worried? About what?"
"Well, you're going to end up alone, Adam. Old and alone. And then what? Who's going to inherit all this?" She gestured around the office.
"I have time."
"Time?" She shook her head. "Men have a biological clock too, you know. I read about it on the internet. Your sperm gets old. Sluggish. It can't swim as fast."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Grandma, please."
"I'm serious! If you wait too long, you won't be able to have children at all." She crossed her arms. "And I want great-grandchildren, Adam. I'm not getting any younger."
I picked up my pen again. "I'll think about it."
"Don't 'think about it.' Do it." She walked back to the desk and planted both hands on the surface, leaning in. "I've set up so many introductions for you over the past two years. You've turned down every single one. This time, you're going. No excuses."
I met her eyes. "Fine. I'll go."
Her expression transformed. She clapped her hands together. "Really?"
"Yes. Really. Now can I get back to work?"
She beamed and picked up the pen she'd stolen earlier, gently placing it back in the holder. "Of course, darling. You work. I'll get out of your hair."
She headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. "It's this Saturday. Lunch at the Harvard Club. Don't be late." She turned back, eyes narrowing. "Tomorrow, Adam. That means tomorrow. Four o'clock. Don't you dare stand her up."
"I won't."
---
Maya's POV:
The license plates arrived on Friday afternoon—two thin rectangles of metal in a padded envelope. I grabbed a screwdriver from the kitchen junk drawer and headed down to the parking lot with Amy trailing behind me.
"Can I help?" she asked, bouncing on her toes.
"You can hold the screws." I crouched by the back bumper and unscrewed the temporary tag. "Here. Don't lose these."
She cupped them carefully in both hands, eyes serious. "I won't."
I lined up the new plate and tightened the screws. The metal gleamed under the afternoon sun. Official. Legitimate. Mine.
"Done." I stood up and dusted off my hands. "What do you think?"
Amy tilted her head, studying it. "It's pretty."
"Yeah." I smiled. "It is."
---
Sunday morning, I was already up making coffee when Amy padded into the kitchen. She looked at the sunny window, then at me.
"Mama, can we go to the zoo today?"
I glanced outside. Clear skies, perfect weather. "Yeah, baby. Let's go."
She grinned and ran to get dressed.
We left at ten, the car windows down, cool air rushing in. Amy sang along to the radio, off-key and loud.
The zoo was crowded—families everywhere, kids running between exhibits, parents chasing after them with strollers. We saw the elephant first, then the giraffes. Amy pressed her face against the glass at the monkey habitat, thinking as they swung from branch to branch.
We stayed until four. Amy fell asleep in the car on the way home, her head lolling against the window. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror and smiled.
---
I took the long route back, avoiding highway traffic. The streets were quiet—tree-lined residential blocks, the occasional jogger, a dog walker. I turned onto a narrow side street, slowing at the stop sign.
A car shot out from the corner.
No warning. No brake lights. Just a flash of red and the screech of tires.
I yanked the wheel right. Too late.
The impact slammed into the front driver's side. Metal crunched. Glass cracked. My head whipped forward, then back. The seatbelt locked across my chest, cutting into my ribs.
The car spun. I gripped the wheel, heart hammering, and slammed on the brakes. We lurched to a stop.
Amy.
I twisted in my seat. "Amy! Baby, are you okay?"
She was awake now, eyes wide, clutching her seatbelt with both hands. "Mama?"
"Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?"
She shook her head slowly. "I... I don't think so."
I unbuckled and scrambled into the back seat, running my hands over her arms, her legs, her head. No blood. No bruises. Just shaking.
"It's okay." I pulled her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her. "You're okay. I've got you."
She buried her face in my shoulder. Her whole body trembled.
Thank God for the seatbelt.
Thank God.
I held her for a long moment, listening to her breathing even out. Then I looked out the window. The red car was gone. Vanished.
Hit and run.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I kissed Amy's forehead. "Stay here for a minute, okay? I need to check the car."
"Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving. I'm just going outside. You can see me the whole time." I pointed through the windshield. "Right there. Okay?"
"Okay."
I climbed out and walked around to the front. The driver's side was smashed in—hood crumpled, headlight shattered, bumper hanging at an angle. The whole front corner looked like it had been hit with a sledgehammer.
My stomach dropped.
The car I just bought.
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.