The Short Hot Summer
Copyright Elizabeth Bevarly
All Rights Reserved
“I don’t want to go. You go.”
“I don’t want to go, either. You go.”
Preston Atherton IV eyed Preston Atherton III with what he hoped was a steely gaze. Unfortunately, at thirty-two years of age, Preston IV was no less intimidated by Preston III than he’d been at three-point-two years of age. His father topped six feet, had shoulders the size of the Brooklyn Bridge, and his brown eyes were made all the more formidable by the salt-and-pepper lock of hair that fell over them.
Then again, Preston IV was pretty much his father’s mirror image save the salt part of the hair and minus twenty-five years. He was COO and an executive vice president at Atherton Industries, which put him in something of an intimidating position himself—to people other than his father, anyway. Still, even though Preston IV had been brought up to follow in the old man’s footsteps, the old man wasn’t ready to move out of those footsteps any time soon. There were times when Preston IV was certain he’d go to that big executive washroom in the sky long before his father did. But there were also times when Preston IV thought he would be just as content to make a few tracks of his own off the beaten path. And anyway, Atherton Industries was much more his father’s than it was his. If Preston III told Preston IV he would be the one to go on this mission, then Preston IV would be the one to go.