He crossed his arms, and his smile faded. “Talk first, okay? I hate how we left things.”
“Me, too,” I said just as I heard footsteps on the floor above us.
My dad started down the stairs. “Who’s at the door?” he asked.
Before I could answer, David walked to the bottom of the staircase with his hand extended. “David Dylan. Olivia’s, er, boyfriend.”
“I see.” They exchanged a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, David.”
“You, too, sir.”
My father glanced at me and back to David. “I understood you weren’t going to make it this time around.”
“Fortunately, my family emergency got sorted out.” David reached back to take my hand, and I stepped up beside him. Looking down at me, he added, “And I have some unfinished business with this one that couldn’t wait.”
“I think you might be right about that,” Dad said, turning for the kitchen. “Come on in, David.”
I looked down at the pink-and-white plaid pajamas I’d worn in high school and had found in a drawer. “I should change,” I whispered as my dad left the room.
David arched an eyebrow. “I think you look cute.”
I blushed a little. “Will you be all right alone with him while I run upstairs?”
“Of course. I’m very popular with parents,” he said with a smirk. “Go on.”
I bolted up the steps and changed into a t-shirt and jeans, a small but necessary step up from my embarrassing outfit. When I came downstairs again, I was surprised to hear the bellow of two deep laughs emanating from the patio.
My dad was a tough nut to crack, and David had already done it? He wasn’t kidding about being popular.
That, or it was thanks to the whiskey bottle on the table and the tumblers in their hands. “I see you two found common ground,” I noted, stepping outside.
“I like him already,” my dad said, raising his glass to David. “Never understood a man who doesn’t appreciate a good whiskey.” They clinked glasses of amber liquid and each took a sip. “So, Olivia tells me you’re an architect.”
“Yes, Mr. Germaine.” David smoothed his hand over his hair. “I’m partner at a firm in Chicago, but I’ve done work all over the country.”
I paused and looked at him. “Wait. You’re apartnerat Pierson/Greer? Why isn’t your name on the building?”
“I wanted to remain a silent,” David explained. “I love what I do for a living, but I hate the bullshit politics of it. I focus on planning and design.” He smiled. “And give input when necessary to make sure they don’t drive the business into the ground.”
“I hear you,” my dad said. “That’s why I went into consulting. I make my own hours, set my own fee. I love business but not bullshit.” He nodded slowly, impressed. “Partner for a top firm, though—that’s very good.”
“He’s one of Chicago’s most in-demand architects,” I bragged.
“So you’ve already mentioned,” my dad reminded me as David eyed me playfully.
“And he has a Porsche,” I added to seal the deal. The fastest way to my dad’s heart was in a sports car.
My dad’s posture straightened. “That so? What kind?”
“911 Classic,” David said, nodding toward the garage. “Was that your C7 in the driveway?”
He nodded once. “And a ’68 Shelby in the garage.”
“You have other cars, too, right?” I asked David.
“The Mercedes is an SL 65 AMG. Black Series.” David’s eyes turned wistful as he raised his drink toward the sky. “And in New York, I’ve got abeautiful, copper Aston Martin Vantage.”
“Engine?” Dad asked.
