“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.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Riley

AN HOUR AND A HALF later, the dessert plates are cleared, and I’m disliking Brandon’s standoffish behavior a whole lot less.

Because I’m on my third glass of wine, and I’m a lightweight. And Brandon, after finishing his second glass, ordered scotch. He did it in a grand manner, announcing that when you were at a place like this, you had to drink scotch. Then he said there was a fancy way to order scotch but didn’t know it and never remembered which was better: single-malt or double. He asked the waiter for “all the malts you have” and the waiter turned away with a very French look on his face.

We’re not drunk. I might be teetering, but really I’m happy. Part of me wonders if it was wise to finish dinner, let alone order dessert — and that same part wonders if it was wise to stay beyond that, to order coffee and to get this third glass of wine. The two definitely don’t mix.

But I don’t really care.

None of that was wise. And when my father left, Brandon became more guarded, less pleasant. We ate in silence for a while as if fulfilling a prison sentence. Brandon wanted to mumble about Dad leaving — not because he’d been discourteous to go, but because whatever it was that had stolen him was, in Brandon’s mind, not just unnecessary but downright unimportant.

I thought that was presumptuous. So I kept my head down, too. I counted asparagus shoots, lining them up on my plate to keep them parallel. Brandon seemed to see me doing it and was about to say something when I realized that Bridget still hadn’t returned.

“Wait,” I said, looking around as if I’d heard a strange sound, “where is your sister?”

And Brandon, his head still down, said, “She had chili for lunch.”

I laughed hard enough that an old man shushed me from one table over. He put a finger to his lips and gave me the evil eye. His wife turned fully in her seat, putting her hand on the back to pivot far enough to stress her diamond-encrusted artificial hip. That thought made me laugh harder, and that’s when I remembered how long it had been since I’d had more than a single glass of wine, and the one in front of me had been generous.

“Seriously,” said Brandon.

The thought of running into the restroom to comfort poor diarrhetic Bridget got me giggling again and earned me a second look from the old couple.

I tried to see Brandon from the corner of my eye. He was smiling. Brandon’s beard hid his lips, but not enough. Things have been lighter since.

I’m enjoying myself. We made some pointless small talk. We discussed business because that feels safe. He flatters me by asking honest questions, not like the things he’d ask the airheaded daughter who knows nothing of her own. Our rhythm becomes easier, then easy. We’re talking land, lending, big strategy, and ten-year plans. Around Brandon, I almost feel confident, like my father’s stand-in rather than his lackey.

I don’t think Brandon is telling the truth about his sister — that she left without telling anyone because of an emergency — any more than he told me the truth about the picture. But at this point I care a lot less. Bridget is gone. I made a joke about how I’d miss her conversation, then immediately wondered if her voice issues were a sore spot and I’d gone too far. But Brandon laughed, wry, grumbling good-naturedly that he’d miss her meddling too.

Brandon sips his scotch. It smells like gasoline when he waves it under my nose, offering a sip. After the third goading offer, I finally agree. It’s awful stuff. It makes my nose flare and burns going down.

“That’s how a man drinks,” he says, smiling.

I giggle a little, knowing it is indeed a stupid little giggle, and exhale. There’s one of those quiet moments, but rather than being tense, Brandon is still smiling. His eyes are friendly and soft. Under the table, his knee is inches from mine, and I feel a strong desire to lay my hand atop it.

“You don’t smile much,” I say, feeling bold.

“I’m smiling right now.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re lubricated,” I correct.

“Well, you’re lubricated, too.” But then he seems momentarily embarrassed even through the haze, because the notion of a girl being “lubricated” has a bit of double meaning.

He breaks the awkwardness by pretending he didn’t notice then says, “What, do I come across as stodgy?”

“You’re very serious.”

“Am I? I’m really not.”

“Well, you look it.”

“I don’t. What, did you think I was an asshole?”

“Past tense?” I say. Then I smile to soften the statement, to make it clear as a joke.

“I’m not,” he says, seeming a trifle offended. “I just don’t smile much, I guess. But that doesn’t make me serious.”