I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she said. “You just make the wrong one when you’re mad.”
“Thanks, Momma. That’s helpful.”
She turned and gave me one of her patented Charleston smiles—tight, white, and empty. “Sweetheart, I say it because I love you.”
But that was the thing. My family’s version of love was all performance and posture. Love was never loud or messy. It was whispered behind closed doors, polished for photographs, and corrected at the dinner table when you said the wrong thing to the wrong person in front of the wrong senator.
Before I could respond, a deeper voice called up the stairs.
“Sloane! You make it in one piece?”
Daddy.
I padded barefoot down the hallway and leaned over the banister. There he was—looking casual as ever in a pink golf polo, tan slacks, and a crystal tumbler in his hand.
“Just barely,” I called back.
He grinned up at me. “Tell me that’s a joke. Or did you really accept a ride from some grease monkey?”
I forced a tight smile. “He had working AC, and he was there. That’s more than I can say for Foster.”
Daddy shook his head, chuckling. “Lord have mercy. My daughter, ridin’ shotgun like it’s prom night in a Ford.”
“Pretty sure it wasn’t a Ford,” I muttered.
“Doesn’t matter. You know better than that. You were raised with good sense. Don’t let the heat fry what’s left of it.”
“I wasn’t exactly hitchhiking,” I said, crossing my arms. “He offered. I accepted. End of story.”
“Nothing’s ever the end of the story,” he said, sipping his drink. “Especially not when you’ve got our last name.”
I didn’t respond. I just nodded and stepped back from the railing.
And he was right. It was never just one choice. One ride. One stain on a designer bag.
It was a headline waiting to happen.
Great.
Daddy took another sip, then looked up at me again. “So. How long you planning on staying this time?”
I hesitated. “A few days. Maybe a week.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You said that last time and ghosted us after three.”
“I had work,” I said.
“You take pictures in a bikini and call it work.”
I gave him a look. “And yet that bikini paid for your birthday trip to the Maldives, so you’re welcome.”
That earned a low chuckle. “Fair enough.”
He swirled the ice in his glass, then added casually, “We’re hosting the Strattons tomorrow night. Cocktail hour and supper on the terrace. Thought you could join.”
Of course, we were.
