Free Jamison (Beautiful Mine #3) by Gia DeLuca

carefully setting them down around the blanket. Only Jamison could take something so ordinary and make it magical.



 
    JAMISON
    “Thanks for meeting me,” I said the following night, staring across the table at an older version of myself. It was almost like looking into a mirror, only I barely knew the asshole looking back at me.
    My father unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap, his dark eyes burning into mine. They were the only features of his I didn’t have, and I was quite certain every time he looked into my eyes he hated that he was reminded of my mother.
    “I was in the city,” he said. “It worked out.”
    “You’re a tough man to track down,” I said, taking a sip of the scotch I’d ordered earlier to calm my nerves as I waited for him. My body tensed in his presence, the way it always did when we’d see each other once in a blue moon. As a child, I’d fantasized about having the kind of doting father my friends always had, the kind of dad who would throw a football with me in the yard or hoist me up on his shoulders during parades and ruffle my hair as he looked at me like I was the best thing since sliced bread. Instead I got Dr. James Fowler, number one neurosurgeon in the United States of America. Top five in the world.
    And my stepfather, Arthur, was a second-rate stand in. I’d never met a more self-serving, spineless excuse for a man than him. Everyone thought the pot-bellied, balding man with the kind smile and jovial laugh was harmless. I knew better. He was nothing but my mother’s minion, and as long as he stayed loyal and kept her happy, she rewarded him with a generous bank account.
    My father’s impossible-to-please persona and my unquenchable need for a taste of unconditional love was what fueled me. The number one driving factor that made me who I was sat across from me, annoyed as if he were doing me some sort of favor by having dinner with his son.
    When I’d graduated from Johns Hopkins, I’d sent him an invitation to the ceremony. He showed up. Clapped for me. Even took a picture with me. When I asked him what he was doing after the ceremony, he mumbled something about meeting an old colleague for dinner. He wasn’t there to support me. He wasn’t there because he was proud of me. He was there because I made him look good. I was nothing but bragging rights and an excuse to fly into town to have dinner with some old friends.
    “I’m speaking at the Garrison Convention in Midtown,” he said, sipping his still water and scanning the room. As per usual he was completely disengaged, and I could only imagine how he badly wished he were anywhere but there. With me.
    “I saw an article about your latest research the other day on peripheral nerve surgery,” I said. “Featured in the American Journal of Neurology. Nice work.” Small talk with him pained me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, and each second that ticked by was pure torture. I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to smile and be pleasant. I wasn’t there for me. I was there for her.
    He shrugged, as if it were just another day for him. Another award given to him for a job well done. Another plaque on the wall. “How’s your mother?”
    It was the dreaded question that always came up anytime we were together, though it never made any sense. He’d abandoned her when I was not quite six, but I was old enough to remember everything about that day. It was the day he turned my warm and loving mother into an ice queen with a heart of frozen steel.
    She was never the same after he left. Shortly after the divorce, she changed my last name from Fowler to Garner, after her side of the family, as if to get one last dig at him for leaving us.
    But he didn’t care. He didn’t try to stop it.
    “She’s good,” I lied. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, but he didn’t deserve to know a damn thing. It was none of his business. He had stopped giving a shit about both of us the day he chose work and accolades over his