“This is Bree James,” I said, knowing what was expected of me. “She’s a fellow writer. She’s a participant in that event I told you about.”
Dad’s face was a mask of politeness without a spark. “That sounds like fun.”
“And this is Sylvia.” I gestured toward Bree’s mother.
“Your mother?” Dad asked Bree, his tone full of curiosity.
“Oh, I don’t look old enough to be her mother, do I?” Sylvia challenged in flirty fashion. “Don’t tell me that. I was practically a baby when I had her.”
Bree swished her lips and looked away, telling me that wasn’t true. I held back a laugh.
“Is everybody eating together?” the server asked, clearly agitated that Bree was still standing.
“Oh, we don’t want to interrupt,” Bree hedged.
“We’re not interrupting,” Sylvia countered, her gaze firmly latched onto my father.
“Definitely not,” Dad agreed. Actually, he almost purred. It was a distressing sound.
I touched my tongue to my top lip and flicked my gaze to Bree. She looked as uncomfortable with this meeting of the minds as I felt. There was no graceful way out of it, however.
She flashed a tight smile toward the server, walked to the chair across from her mother, and sat. That positioned her to my left and to the right of my father, who only had eyes for Sylvia.
Bree picked up the menu.
The server’s smile was strained. “Drinks first?”
“I’ll have an iced tea,” Bree said.
I nodded. “That’s what I’ll have.”
Dad made a face. “It’s dinner.” His tone was mocking.
“I have work to do when I get home,” I replied. “I’m a bit behind today.”
“Probably because you were out walking with my daughter,” Sylvia said on a happy laugh.
“Oh, I needed a break when we went on our walk,” I said. “I expected to get back to work when I was back at my house.” I shot my father a tight smile. “It’s fine, though. I can get into it after dinner.”
Conversation between Bree and me lagged after that. My father took over. He talked about himself mostly. Sylvia acted as if it was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard, even though it was obvious she didn’t care in the least about construction.
I kept darting looks toward Bree, who was decidedly uneasy with the turn of events. I didn’t know what she was thinking, but discomfort rolled through my stomach whenever I looked between my father and her mother.
My father ordered the filet mignon. Sylvia went for the rib eye then listened with rapt attention as my father explained whythe rib eye was an inferior slice of meat. Bree ordered the Wagyu steak. I got the same thing. Dad and Sylvia went for cocktails—multiple cocktails—leaving Bree and me to act as designated drivers.
“So, Brody,” Sylvia said when dinner had been cleared and two fresh cocktails had been delivered to her and Dad. “What do you write? Are you like Bree and write about vampires?”
I cringed as my father made a rude noise.
“Vampires?” Dad finally gave Bree his full attention. “Like… Dracula?”
Bree laughed, but the sound was hollow. “More like Angel and Spike.”
That reference, of course, meant nothing to my father. “Who?”
She laughed again. “I write snarky vampire fiction. It’s not likeDracula.”
“It has a lot of sex in it.” Sylvia waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Dad. “I didn’t need any tips, but if you want to learn something, you should totally read them.”
