Hope he isn’t planning on provoking his father tonight. But the fact that he’s tucked the bottoms of his joggers into black socks covered in neon penises says that’s exactlywhat he’s going to do. Especially since those socks have “Eat a bag of dicks” written down the sides.
Regardless, I’ve got his back.
My footsteps echo in the marble-lined hallway as I trail after him. He slows, and when I catch up, he turns right.
The dining room is like something out of a movie. Never seen a room—or a table—so big. Our entire team could eat at it.
Connor's parents don't even bother looking up from their phones. Not surprised. His father’s at the head of the table, his mother on the right. Both are dressed like they're about to attend a board meeting.
“You're late,” his father says without lifting his eyes from his screen. “Punctuality isn't optional in this family.”
Connor drops into a chair halfway down the table. “We had practice.”
Thankfully, they didn’t notice his socks.
His mother huffs, as if the excuse is a waste of her precious time. “Of course you did.”
I take the seat next to him, unfold the cloth napkin, then place it on my lap. “Um, hello.”
His father looks at me, placing his phone face down on the table. Not a smile, not even a frown, just this flat stare that makes my skin prickle. He turns to his son a momentlater. “The Callahans are threatening to pull out entirely. Do you have any idea what that will cost us?”
“Your little performance is creating ripples across our entire portfolio,” his mother adds.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have tried to force me to marry Veronica.” Connor leans back as staff members place small plates in front of us, laden with tiny pieces of toast topped with some kind of cream and fish eggs.
I poke at the food, pressing my lips together, because I want to smack him upside the head right now. Does he not see the irony in what he did with me?
“We saw your records, Mr. Henneman,” his father says.
My fork scrapes against the plate, chest tightening. I focus on the tiny piece of toast in front of me and count the eggs.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Orphan. Pulled from your foster home for attacking people. Charges were dropped, but barely. You are not someone we want our family to be associated with.”
My knee bounces under the table, sweat forming along my forehead.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Something squeezes my knee. No—someone.
I look up and turn toward Connor just as his hand slips away. His jaw flexes like he's grinding his teeth to powder as he faces his parents. “Like I haven’t done worse.”
Mrs. Walsh takes a sip of her wine as she glares at him. “Yes, we are aware. Unnecessary money wasted on your nonsense. The Reeds should be more thankful we covered up the little crumbs you all left.”
Mr. Walsh steeples his fingers, elbows on the table. “Nothing to say for yourself, Mr. Henneman?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I was going through a lot. Learned my lesson.”
Understatement of the century.
