Billionaire Bosses Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

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      To his surprise, Tom seemed to deflate before his eyes. ‘She’s an amazing kid.’ He dragged a hand across his eyes, blinking as if he’d just woken up. ‘She’s my world.’

      ‘Then maybe you should think about joining the land of the living again?’ Archer hoped to lighten the sombre mood. ‘When’s the last time you had a date anyway?’

      Old hurts darkened Tom’s mood and his usually jovial brother frowned. Archer felt like a jerk for probing his wounds but Trav was right. Tom needed to start dating again—for his own sake as well as Izzy’s.

      Not that he had a right to butt in where his niece was concerned, considering his deliberate distancing over the years. But this visit was different. Seeing Callie interact with his family made him appreciate them in a whole new light. And made him feel like a first class jerk.

      How long would he keep his own old hurts locked away inside where they festered? How long would he let wounded pride get in the way?

      Tom’s turbulent gaze focussed on his daughter as he placed his bottle on a nearby table and folded his arms. ‘You ever wish you had a different life?’

      Never. Discounting the hash of a relationship he now had with his family.

      Archer loved his life: the freedom, the buzz, the adrenalin. He liked being his own boss, and valued his independence as much as his trophies. Though he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to wondering more and more these days why he was so hell-bent on the single life.

      At the start it had been about striving for success and not needing ties to hamper him. Emotional ties that ended up causing pain.

      His family might not know it, but in their decision to ostracise him from his dad’s illness and not trust him enough to cope they’d solidified his life choices.

      Better for him not to connect emotionally with anyone, to enjoy his lack of responsibility and savour the single life. No strings attached; a motto that had served him well over the years.

      Callie’s laughter floated on the breeze and something in his gut clenched.

      No, he didn’t regret a thing, but for a moment he wondered how different his life would have been if he’d put his trust issues aside and taken a risk on their relationship.

      ‘No use wondering about maybes, mate. All we can do is make the best of what we’ve got.’

      Pensive, Tom nodded. ‘I don’t regret marrying Tracy for the sake of Izzy, that’s for sure. But sticking around here with its same-old, same-old has its moments.’

      Tom wouldn’t get any arguments from him. The monotony of living in the small town he’d grown up in would’ve driven him nuts.

      ‘What about surfing?’

      Tom’s frown deepened. ‘What about it?’

      ‘Do you resent not going pro?’

      ‘Hell, no.’ Tom guffawed. ‘I was never as driven as you, squirt. No way would I have spent years traipsing the world chasing the next big wave.’

      ‘It was all you talked about growing up. I think it’s half the reason I wanted to go pro—because you did.’

      Tom shook his head. ‘You always wanted it more than me. I couldn’t hack all the training and moving around.’

      ‘But I thought...’

      ‘What?’

      ‘That you gave it all up when Trace deliberately got pregnant. That she trapped you and you hated it and that’s what eventually led to the marriage falling apart.’

      Tom slapped him on the back. ‘Not that it matters now, but to set the record straight—yeah, Tracy fell pregnant on purpose, but she didn’t trap me. I didn’t have to propose. I wanted to, because I was young and dumb and idealistic.’

      He glanced towards their folks, toasting each other with champagne at a quiet table at the rear of the marquee, oblivious to the family bedlam around them. ‘I guess I secretly wanted what they had.’

      A familiar sadness enveloped Archer when he glanced at his folks. The Fletts had always been a close family, and his folks seemed more devoted now, following the health scare that had so shocked him when he’d eventually found out.

      He envied them that closeness. It was like standing on the outside looking in at an exclusive club.

      Tom’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘I’d give an arm and a leg to have a relationship like that. A woman who adores me, who’s content to be with me and doesn’t need all the fancy trappings of a big city.’

      Liking the fragile bond of reconnecting with Tom on a deeper level than mock-wrestling, Archer delved further. ‘Is that why Tracy left? Because she wanted the high life?’

      ‘’Course. Once she had Izzy it was all she talked about. I wanted a future that focussed on building a stable environment for our child to grow in, and she couldn’t leave fast enough.’

      Archer rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if Santa would make an appearance to dispel any other myths he’d once believed in.

      ‘Wow, I didn’t know.’

      ‘Because some things are best left unsaid. Besides, I don’t want Iz hearing bad stuff about her mum, just in case Trace grows a conscience one day and wants to see her daughter.’

      ‘Where is she?’

      ‘Sydney, last I heard but who knows? She sends the obligatory birthday and Christmas gifts. That’s about it.’

      While Tom’s tone didn’t hold an ounce of censure, guilt niggled at Archer.

      Was that how the Fletts talked about him when he wasn’t around? Saying that he should grow a conscience rather than sending obligatory birthday gifts and making an obligatory Christmas visit during which he couldn’t wait to escape back to his life?

      Considering how he’d withdrawn from them, he couldn’t blame them.

      He wanted to forgive and move on.

      He wanted to shelve his pride and bring the whole thing out into the open.

      But every single time he wanted to broach the painful subject of how he’d felt at being shut out, and how their rebuttal of his overture had hurt, one image stuck in his mind.

      His dad, elbows braced on his precious piano, head in his hands, crying. Big, brusque Frank Flett never cried, and to see his father so broken had left a lasting legacy.

      It had been just after they’d finally told him the truth—a year after his dad had been given the all-clear. Twelve freaking months, on top of the six months Frank had battled the disease that could have claimed his life, when his family had shut him out because they didn’t want to distract him, or thought he couldn’t handle it, or some such rot.

      He’d been livid, and seeing his father’s tears had reinforced what they thought of him as nothing else could.

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