CHAPTER NINETEEN
I don’t know why Brandon is suddenly in some sort of a text war, or why he feels the need to do it right here, right now. He certainly wouldn’t dare if my father was at the table.
I know he’s not doing it to insult me, but knowing that he’d only respond to texts at this fancy table — where the company will be picking up the tab — while I’m the only one sitting with him is hard to square with the whole not-doing-it-to-insult-me thing.
He does apologize, but it’s such bullshit. It’s a get-off-the-hook apology. It’s a social trap. He wants to text, so he apologizes and says it’s urgent. What am I supposed to say? I have to say it’s okay, no big deal. And now, that acceptance means I’ve forfeited my right to be pissed … though after he gets a photo he won’t show me, it’s hard not to be.
I’m suddenly, vividly certain that he’s making fun of me.
I have no basis for this. No reason to believe it. But given that his bumblings about an artist and a work in progress are clearly lies, there must be another reason he won’t show me whatever it is. His guilty look, when he barely meets my eyes, only drives the certainty deeper. If it’s not directly about me, it’s absolutely something that I — not just anyone — am not supposed to see.
Is it a girlfriend, sending him a nude snap? That’s the kind of thing a guy would clutch to his chest and get all red faced about in public. But then why do I get the distinct impression that he’d show others, and it’s specifically Riley James who’s not supposed to see?
I’m being paranoid. I’ve never been especially comfortable in places like this. I can’t really be arm candy to Dad because that role is reserved for dates, but I’m still an accessory, like a purse for a man. Dad wants to show me off, fresh from college. And you can’t be shown off while also being dealt with as an equal.
I shouldn’t have worn this dress.
And if I’d known that Brandon would be here ahead of time, I don’t think I’d have come.
That asshole.
Who thinks it’s okay to have idle chats with his buddies while I’m right here. While he’s been sitting a foot away, not so much as glancing in my direction more than a time or two. Like he’s annoyed that I’m here because this was supposed to be man to man. Dad already said Brandon is the guy he wants for the VP job, so this is just the last test — the final effort to make sure that Brandon can play the role now that Dad’s decided.
I wish he’d just tell him already. Get this over with so I can stop wondering whether Brandon should be my boss or not, and at what level.
Dad shows up, to my left and Brandon’s right. But there’s no seat between us, and he was on my other side. He’s making no move to take his seat, or sit down.
He sets something on the table. It’s a credit card, cobalt, with a finish that’s not glossy, but matte like satin. And of course he’s put it in front of Brandon, not me. Not his daughter, whose name is literally on the card, in the company position.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I have to leave.”
Brandon looks disappointed. I suppose he was expecting final word on his promotion, and now he sees he’s not about to get it. Following the text debacle, this makes me spitefully happy. Let him keep waiting. God knows, I still am.
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
“It’s a business thing. Margo heard from one of our people who … well, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” His face tries softens, but I can tell this bugs him — not because he wanted dinner, but because he’s running out on me. And at least there’s that. Dad and Brandon have been ignoring me and Brandon’s sister to talk about stuff that orbits the company without actually being business, but when it comes down to it, it’s me he’s loath to disappoint, not Brandon.
I decide to ignore his “it’s a business thing” brush-off. As if I wouldn’t understand. At least he’s not explaining to Brandon.
“But please. Dinner is on its way. Enjoy.” He looks at me. “Bring me home a doggy bag or something.”
To my surprise, Brandon looks up at my father and says, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Dad looks almost amused. “Of course it is. It’s our VC guy. His assistant left a message for Margo, saying he’s pulling out. And you know we have that big acquisition meeting in the morning.”
So much for Dad not telling Brandon.
“A message? Margo didn’t talk to her? Or to him? Margo didn’t confirm?”
“I told you earlier. Tom is at the Hunt Club. I can just pop over.”
“Or you could call.”
“It’s not a fifty-dollar investment, Brandon. This needs to be handled in person.”
“But if you don’t confirm … ”
“Why would I need to confirm?”
Brandon’s eyes flick toward me for some reason. “Anyone could have left that message.”
“What,” he says, “you think someone is messing with me for no reason?” He gives me a sideways grin then slaps Brandon on the back. “Remember the meeting. Tomorrow, 7 a.m., at the office. Don’t run off to Stonegate and forget, okay? I already told everyone my new … well, a strong Land Acquisition up-and-comer will be there.”
“Sure,” Brandon says, clearly looking for another way to object.
“Don’t forget. You won’t forget, will you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because if we bust this meeting, Tom really will walk.” Another grin, this one bigger. “And don’t worry. I’ll get him to the meeting. Then it’s your job to make our case.”
Brandon nods, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. They talked through a lot of this earlier, and it’s clear that Brandon doesn’t feel confident that he can convince funding to stand behind our newest acquisition. But if he doesn’t want the big seat, he’d better back off now.
Dad leans toward me and gives me a little kiss on the cheek. Before Brandon knows what hit him, he’s already across the room.
Finally, torturously, Brandon turns halfway toward me. “I guess it’s just us then.”
For some reason, those six words give me a chill. Or is it a thrill?
“Us and your sister,” I clarify.
“Right,” Brandon says, his face unreadable.
“Where is she, anyway?” I have no idea how much time has passed because the clock ticks slowly when you’re at a table beside someone who both irritates and draws you while you’re each refusing to speak under the weight of the strangeness between you.
I’m considering letting Brandon off the hook — saying we should call off dinner and go home — when the food arrives.
Brandon picks up his glass of wine. I think he’s going to toast for some bizarre reason, but instead he drinks half of it.
“Dinner’s here,” he says, glancing at the two empty places. “How nice.”