“Tell him he can dig around in my life all he wants, he won’t find any bones.”
I don’t hang about for a response. I don’t need to, because I know my father’s game all too well. ‘No’ isn’t a word he likes to hear, especially not from his own son. I should have known it was only a matter of time before he tried to blackmail me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lola
You sure you want to do this, Lola. You’re not a minor anymore.
I’m sure.
- Conversation between Lola, age 18 and Max, age 18
The restaurant isthe first clue I’m out of my depth. Well, maybe the second actually. Roman spent the entire two-hour journey into the city trying to convince me to let him turn back and take me home.
“My father is trying to blackmail me into working for him, Lola.” Roman’s hands tighten on the steering wheel even though we’ve pulled into the parking lot.
“Which is why you need some back up,” I insist, still furious on Roman’s behalf that his dad hired a freaking PI to dig into his life. “Are you going to confront him about the PI?”
His sigh is heavy, bone tired. “No. He already knows I know. And he knows I know he knows. But we’ll both pretend ignorance because that’s how things work in my father’s world and the quickest way to get rid of him is to play along.”
I hum. “Sounds super healthy.”
Roman laughs then shakes his head, distress stitched in the creases of his eyes. “I don’t want him in your life.”
I undo my seat belt and twist to face him. “Roman, I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.” And if he’s this nervous before we’ve even met with his father, then I’m glad I’m here. I don’t want Roman doing this alone.
Except I might have been wrong about the whole being fine thing because the restaurant is unlike anything I’ve ever stepped foot in. I saw plenty of fancy places during my travels, but I saw them from theoutside.The second I walk into Le Marguerite I feel like a pimple on a supermodel.
The floor is carpeted in a deep velvet green and my heels wobble in the plush material. The maître d’ greets us from behind a small, black podium, her blonde hair falling in perfectly straight lines around her face. She smiles at Roman. “Ah, you must be Mr. Banks. Your father is waiting for you.”
She doesn’t even deign to address me or maybe the look on my face just screams help and she’s politely pretending not to notice. The levels of inadequacy only worsen as she leads us into the restaurant,herheels not wobbling in the slightest.
A mirrored bar runs along the right side of the room, the shelves of drinks glimmering like golden ambrosia under the warm lighting and mirrored ceiling. A man in a waistcoat spins a bottle in his hand before pouring it into a cocktail mixer.
The maître d’ leads us around a literal Grecian column to an open space with a select few tables. Green velvet chairs match the carpet, and the pristine white tablecloths stand outin contrast. It’s one of those places that would be hideous if it weren’t so expensive.
A man who looks like a more refined, harsher version of Roman stands as we approach. They’re more similar than I expected and I’m reminded how weird it is that I’ve known Roman since he was fifteen and I’ve never even seen a photo of his father.
“Dad.” Roman dips his head in greeting.
A smile breaks across his dad’s face, slight wrinkles softening his demeanor, and if I didn’t know what I do about him, I’d almost be convinced it was genuine. “I’m glad you made it.”
Roman squeezes my hand. “This is Lola, my girlfriend. Lola, meet my dad. Richard.”
Waves froth low in my stomach like the break of surf at hearing him call me his girlfriend. Despite my nerves, I can’t help the soft smile that curves my lips. I reach out a hand to Richard and embrace the whole ‘playing pretend’ thing. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Banks.”
His smile doesn’t dim but I swear his eyes flicker as he looks me over. I stiffen but then he takes my hand, cupping his other hand over mine in a grandfatherly way. “The pleasure is all mine. Please, join me.” He steps back and waves a hand at the table.
I raise an amused brow at Roman as he pulls out my seat.
His eyes glimmer and he presses a kiss to the top of my head before taking the seat next to me at the small circular table.
“We’ll take a bottle of the Chateau Mouton Rothschild, my dear,” Richard says to the maître d’ who dips her head.
“Of course, sir.”
I pick up the menu and have to stifle a squeak at the price tag next to the bottle of wine Richard just ordered.
