Like old money.
Like she belongs in rooms I still feel like I snuck into.
She slides her hand into mine.
“Hi, baby,” she says softly.
And I swear to God, I’ve never stood straighter in my life.
Walking in with her feels like walking in with a trophy.
Which sounds awful.
But it’s true.
Every man in that room clocks her.
Then looks at me.
Then back at her.
And I see it.
That flicker.
Jealousy.
Respect.
Approval.
Like I just won something.
Jim claps me on the shoulder. “Atta boy.”
Like I built her myself.
The night turns into scotch and handshakes and too many cigars.
The old-timers pull me aside one by one.
Big laughs.
Red faces.
Hands that grip too hard.
“Marketing’s looking good this quarter.”
“You’re making moves, son.”
“Smart kid.”
Someone shoves a glass into my hand.
Another presses a cigar between my fingers.
The VP of Marketing wraps an arm around my shoulders like we’re lifelong friends.
