I look at Saint with my best "what the fuck" expression.
"I'll go get him," he says.
Yeah, you do that.
"Oh that's cute," his mother says to me. "You two can speak to each other without words already."
Oh dear God.
The four of us sit down at a beautiful whitewashed, butcher-block, kitchen table to a lunch of very well-done but delicious grilled lamb chops, greek salad and couscous. It was damn good. Saint's mother is an awesome cook.
The conversation is pleasant. We talk about random things like shows we like on HBO, their plans to add solar panels to the house, and of course football. I was holding my own in the conversation until they took it there. They were mentioning things about players, games and coaches that I knew nothing about, and it was painfully obvious. My only course of diversion was to address the elephant in the room.
"So Mr. Stevenson, were there any questions you wanted to ask me about Saint's move over to Carson Financial?"
"Yeah, are you interested in my son romantically?"
I almost choke on the swallow of lemonade that is in my mouth.
"Not even a little bit, Mr. Stevenson."
That gets me my first smile out of the patriarch.
"That's all I need to know then."
That's it!?
"Did you think I was some sort of gold digger, Mr. Stevenson?" I ask a little miffed that he has no serious business questions for me.
"Anyone can be tempted by opportunity and everyone has their own agenda. That's why I like to keep things in-house. There's no questioning my motives, but you I don't know. I only want the best for my boy."
"I completely understand. Obviously I don't feel exactly the way that you do about your son, but I don't have any ulterior motives either. Saint signed with Carson, and Carson assigned him to me. End of story. His reasons for signing with Carson are his reasons."
"That's good enough for me then. How about we toast to my son and what's hopefully his final season with the Nighthawks. Do you drink?"
Somehow I feel like this is another test.
"Occasionally."
"Caroline, what can we drink with 7up cake?"
"Milk."
"Alcohol, sweetheart."
"Hell if I know, Clint. Maybe rum?"
"I think Miss White here likes tequila," Saint chimes in.
"Tequila? I don't drink that. Last time I had tequila was in–"
I snap my eyes up to his and the realization hits me. The sight of pure satisfaction spreading across his face explains everything running through my head right now.
"Georgetown." I finish my sentence.
"That's right, Freshman–Georgetown."
Chapter Sixteen
