“It will be great to have you with us,” Senna replies. “Are you prepared for my dad?”
“Yes,” Rosie says, worrying her kissable lips.
“We’ve got you.” Connor nods. “Jim hates me, so if he’s too much, give me the nod. I’ll say something stupid, and he’ll forget about you.”
“Thank you. I wanted to be here for Niki.” A warmth hits my belly even as Senna raises an eyebrow at me.
Dad stiffens as Rosie shakes his hand. He holds one out to me, and I nod my greeting.
His grumbles echo while my mum shakes Rosie’s hand before everyone sits. Dad glares at Rosie and at me. I glare back at him, the tension rising with each passing second. We’ve been in the restaurant for less than a minute, and it’s alreadyawkward as fuck. I’m used to it, but Rosie shouldn’t have to cope with his bullshit.
“You’re not wearing your cap,” Mum comments.
Rosie looks at Connor, taking him up on his offer to run interference.
He says, “Daddy Coulter, how are things?”
Senna rubs her forehead, and Rosie throws me a panicked look as I chuckle.
“You did well at qualifying today,” I say to Connor. “Tawny was great, too.”
“She showed Billy Nister he can’t mess with her,” Senna replies.
My dad still scowls at us, but we continue regardless.
“And how’s Layla?” I ask Connor, referring to his younger sister.
“She’s great. She’s been acting a bit weird about university and her degree. Maybe it’s anxiety. But she’s finishing university next year, and hopefully she’ll join us soon after. She’ll be a great addition. She’s so clever.”
“She’s top of her year and has social media ideas to help bring Coulter Racing into the modern age for fans. There’s a growing female demographic for F1 and?—”
“We talked about dipping your pen in the company ink.” Dad stares at me and Rosie.
Rosie blushes bright red and drops her head.
“Jim,” Mum hisses.
“Dad, don’t start,” Senna warns.
“Of course you’d defend them. You’re living with one of your drivers.”
“I love you, Daddy Coulter,” Connor replies.
Dad’s eyes pinch.
“Let’s check the menu. They’ll take our drink orders soon. Who wants to share a bottle of red?” Mum points at themenus and clucks until we pick them up. “I’ve craved the pasta here all week. What’s everyone else thinking?”
My dad huffs. “I’m thinking?—”
“Look at your menu, Jim.”
I shakily grab Rosie’s hand under the table. I must confront Dad about what he said, although what I do with Rosie isn’t any of his business.
The waiter collects our orders, and soon we’re staring at each other again.
Chatter surrounds us, but this is a meal where any of us could bring a storm. I resist the temptation to clean the cutlery with the cloth in my pocket. The waiter returns quickly. He pours a little wine into my dad’s glass, who sips it, scowling at us over the rim, before nodding.
The waiter fills each glass in turn. My shoulders tense when the waiter gets too close as he pours mine. I swallow a couple of times, but my mouth is painfully dry.
