“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you didn’t like these kinds of shindigs.”
Foster shakes his head. “I don’t. But then again, I thought it might be fun to watch you crash and burn.”
Ari, Riley’s sister, gives Foster a murderous look. “Who wants their friend to crash and burn on a first date?”
“It’s the third date, actually,” I say, because it is, at least the way I count dates. “And no worries, Ari. That’s the way he and I talk to each other. I don’t take his grumpy ass personal.”
Riley pipes up, “He’s been a perfect gentleman and super helpful all evening. But you’re right, Foster. I haven’t seen any of the Rogers anywhere tonight. I hope his daddy’s health hasn’t taken a turn for the worse. How awful.”
“My daddy’s just fine, thanks for asking.”
All the faces around the table turn white.
Slowly, I turn around to find Pete standing next to a burly man in his 40s, peachy-colored hair on its way to turning white, and dead black eyes like a shark. If I didn’t know how to read people, I’d take his words and the smile on his lips at face value. But this guy has the vibe of a man with no soul.
I stand up immediately and shake his hand, introduce myself, and say the smarmy thing that I coached myself to say. “So glad to hear it. I’m Rowdy, local patron of the arts, and this is Riley Hutchinson, one of the artists that your foundation so graciously supports. We are so grateful for your attendance tonight.”
“I was waylaid by a last-minute board meeting. I apologize,” Rogers says.
“No apology necessary,” I say.
A slight smirk pulls at the corner of the man’s lips as he clocks my accent. To outsiders like Foster, we all sound the same. But some people can pick up on some of us with our deep country backgrounds.
I’m not flustered about it. Not much.
But I do flub my manners in the moment, slightly shaken by Wilson’s ice-cold eyes, and accidentally allow Riley to pull her own chair out to greet Wilson.
She holds out her hand. “So nice to finally meet you in person. I?—”
“Follow me.”
She and I make quick eye contact, silently communicating wonder at where Wilson could possibly want Riley to followhim to. Wherever it is, I’m not letting her out of my sight, and I follow close on her heels.
Wilson treks across the ballroom with the two of us in tow as everyone seated tucks into the salad course and chatters amongst themselves.
Wilson comes to a stop at the art display near the auction podium.
“This your doing?”
It’s the kind of tone that lets me know nothing good is gonna come of this conversation.
Riley visibly flinches. “Yes. Yes, that’s my painting.”
“What happened to the…the little birdies and shit?”
“I…I…” Her face looks like she’s seen a ghost.
I do my best to be charming and de-escalate whatever is bubbling up in this overgrown brat’s head.
“Now, I’m a major collector of Riley’s bird paintings, sunrises, sunsets, and mountain landscapes. All of it. But these artists, you know, they have to keep evolving, and I think what you’re seeing here is an expression of…of…” Ah shit. I don’t really know dick about art. All I know is what I like and what I love. Both of those things boil down to Riley. I love whatever she does.
Wilson takes my faltering to verbally assault my girl. “What we have here is pornography. Straight up.”
“What? No, I don’t know what you mean,” she insists. “This is personal, and it’s not indecent at all.” Bless Riley, regaining her voice and straightening her spine.
He points to the red shades at the center of the painting. “That is clearly a vagina. Everybody can see that.”
She tilts her head. “I suppose if you want to look at it that way. It’s open to interpretation.”
