_OceanofPDF

“Dad.”
He looked at his watch before shaking my hand, as if checking to see if
I was late. I wasn’t. Not that he would have said anything, but I knew the
man.
“Glad you could make it.” He held up an ice cube by the tongs. “One
for you?”
“Sure. The Glen Alan. How’s the party planning going?”
“Every time I turn my back, your mother adds to the sheer volume of
it.” He put the ice in a second glass.
“You could set a limit.”
“Why put a boundary on happiness?” He plucked the bottle up by the
neck, let it go upward, spinning in the air, and caught it on the way down.
“You look good, by the way.” He pulled out the cork. “Rested.”
“I feel good,” I lied. “Resting.”
“Olivia’s up all night with Garret, and Byron’s up doting on her. Nice to
see a face without dark circles under the eyes.”
Dad handed me a glass of scotch. We clicked.
“Like they don’t have a staff?” I snorted into my drink and took a sip
that chilled and burned at the same time.
Dad sat on the couch, and before I could join him, Byron strode in and
went right to the bar.
“The prodigal son returns.” My brother flipped a glass in the air and
caught it.
“I’m not Colton,” I replied.
“If you were, you’d be having more fun.” He poured his scotch straight.
“Sit,” Dad said. “The two of you.”
We sat across from our father. I leaned forward to catch every word.
Byron leaned back, spreading his arms and crossing his legs ankle over
knee as if he needed more space.
“So,” Dad started. “Byron. It’s been a little over six months. Do you feel
caught up?”
“Yes,” Byron said. “Some of the names changed. The numbers shifted,
but it’s manageable.”
Dad pointed at me. “You agree?”
“It’s a complicated business.” I leaned forward. “We never know what’s
coming down the pike. The rigs off Macau are operating at eighty-nine