The food was excellent. My mother's stress-cooking always was. But the conversation moved like molasses. Too polite. Too careful. Everyone trying so hard not to say the wrong thing that no one said much of anything.
"So." My mother passed the bread basket. "Tobias, tell us about this project you're working on."
"The cottage renovation at the Grandview. I'm designing the conversion, turning an old groundskeeper's cottage into a honeymoon suite." I tried to sound casual, but pride leaked through. "Ronan Beck, the hotel manager, approved the preliminary designs last week."
"In one meeting," Vance added quietly. "Usually takes three rounds of revisions."
I glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at his plate, but there was something almost like pride in his voice too.
"That's wonderful." My mother beamed. "Using your degree. Finally."
"Finally," I agreed. "Better late than never."
My father set down his fork. "The Grandview. That's the Sterling property, isn't it? Historic preservation?"
"Yes. The original structure is from the 1920s. Beautiful stonework. The challenge is modernizing the interior systems without compromising the character."
"Sustainable materials?"
"Where possible. Reclaimed wood flooring, high-efficiency windows. The hotel's clientele tends toward environmentally conscious."
My father nodded slowly. I could see him processing, shifting from father to businessman. "Smart angle. Luxury sustainability is a growing market."
"That's what I thought."
"Send me the plans when you're further along. I'd like to see your approach."
I stared at him. In twenty-six years, my father had never once asked to see my work. I'd sat in meetings, reviewed approved blueprints, and attended presentations where no one asked my opinion. Now he was asking.
"I—yes. I will."
Tristan caught my eye across the table, eyebrows raised. I gave him a tiny shrug.
"So, Vance." My mother turned her attention. "You work at the same hotel?"
"Head of security, ma'am."
"That sounds important."
"It's mostly paperwork." He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "And making sure drunk guests don't wander into restricted areas."
"He's being modest," I said. "He runs a team of twelve and handles everything from event security to emergency protocols."
"I'm not being modest. I'm being accurate."
"You're being difficult."
Tristan snorted into his wine. "This is adorable. You bicker like an old married couple."
"We're not—" Vance started.
"He's right," I interrupted. "We do."
Vance shot me a look that promised retribution later. I smiled sweetly.
"Remember when Tobias reorganized the entire library by color?" Tristan asked, clearly enjoying himself. "Mom nearly had a stroke."
"I was twelve. The system was chaos."
