He says it like it’s a joke, but I know it isn’t. Not really. I’ve seen how Ryan’s shoulders slump after Jack’s semi-annual lectures. I know it affects him even if he likes to pretend it doesn’t.
A glass of champagne appears in front of me, this time pinched between the fingers of yet another server who grins at me warmly. I sigh inwardly, pasting on a smile. I guess the only way they’ll leave me alone is if they see me actually holding a glass of bubbly. The second I take the glass, though, Ryan plucks it from my fingertips.
“No champagne for this one,” he says, setting it back on the server’s tray and leans in conspiratorially. “It gives her gas. When you get a chance, she’ll take a glass of dry red.”
Ryan discreetly hands the server a bill, sending him scurrying back to the kitchen to fill my order.
“Gives megas?” I snap. “And what if I wanted that?”
He snorts. “Please. Youhatechampagne.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe I changed my mind.”
He leans down so his eyes are almost level with mine, like I’m some toddler he’s communicating with. “Repeat after me: Thank you, Ryan, for getting me a drink I actually wanted.”
I bare my teeth. “Bite me.”
“Pippa! Ryan!”
We both turn when we hear our names. Our parents stride through the crowd toward us, Mom wearing a smile and Jack wearing a pantomime of one.
“Sweetheart! You look beautiful,” Mom says, pulling me into a tight hug.
“Damn, Emily!” Ryan says from behind me. “That’s one hell of a dress.”
“Oh, stop it,” Mom says. “You know it’s the same old dress I wear every Christmas.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. The “same old dress” is Valentino and perfectly tailored to her. None of her friends would ever comment on it the way they would if I rewore the J. Crew dress I picked up on sale last year.
“Well, you look better in it every year.”
“Always the charmer,” she teases, giving him a hug, too.
“Thank you both for coming,” Jack says. His hands are clasped behind his back, like he wants Ryan and me to remember that he won’t be offering so much as a handshake, as if I’d even want one. He couldn’t be more unlike my warm, social mother, and I wonder for the zillionth time how Mom could have picked this emotionally bankrupt stuffed suit over Dad.
“How’s apartment hunting going?” Mom asks.
Ugh. My smile must look just as wooden as Jack’s, being reminded of the real estate market. “Um, rental agents aren’t being super responsive because of the holidays, but I’ve got a few places on my radar. There are two apartments I’m looking at next week.”
“So you could be out by New Year’s Eve?” Ryan asks hopefully.
“I hope so.”
If I can’t find a new place by January 1st, that means I’ll probably be stuck with Ryan until at least the 15th if notFebruary.And I really don’t know if I can handle another month and half of giggling girls and endless poker chatter. “I hope Ryan’s been a good host to you,” Jack says, shooting a pointed look at his son.
Ryan’s jaw tightens. He knows that this is my opportunity to tell Jackexactlyhow annoying he’s been, from his constant shirtlessness to scaring off my date. Fortunately for him, the last thing I want is to listen to the two of them whisper-fight in the middle of a party. Ryan may not have limits or morals, but I do.
“I haven’t even seen Ryan that much,” I say, mostly truthfully. “He’s been traveling a lot for work. The only reason I know he’s been home is the mountain of energy drink cans he clogs the recycling with.”
Jack frowns. “Playing poker isn’twork.”
“Well, it pays the bills,” Ryan says stiffly. “So I think it counts.”
“You’re not producing anything. Not building anything or making a contribution to society. It’sgambling.”
Ryan clears his throat. “Yeah, I should really be doing something more noble. Maybe like getting repeat offenders off on just charges.”
Jack’s eyes flash.
