We all sit down. A waiter brings waters over while another sets down baskets of buttered brown bread and shrimp cocktail.
“Would you like something to drink besides water, Miss?” the first one asks Amara.
I look over at her. Even as we sit around the large table between firepits, my arm is still around her, my hand loosely placed on her hip.
“Vodka martini, please,” she says.
“She has good taste,” Baron says.
I offer her half a smirk and catch my dad’s expression out of my peripheral. Tight smile. Eyes warm from too much liquor and not enough water. He’s looking right through us.
“So, Amara,” Maverick starts in, and I don’t know whether to take a sip of my drink or just chuck it at his face before something he will regret comes out. Honestly, I am a little surprised my dad invited him. But then I realize it was probably my mother. “Tell us the truth.”
“The truth?” she asks. I can hear the waver in her voice and the uncertainty of the rest of the question, but her poker face is perfect.
Amara is used to playing cards. And she also knows how to win.
“What’s it really like working for this guy?” He tips his head in my direction, but his eyes, his grin, are on Amara still. Everyone at the table looks over.
Amara looks up at me, a smile still playing perfectly on her lips. “He’s a good boss,” she says. “He treats me well.”
“Good answer,” my mother says, taking a sip of her drink.
Maverick is still grinning. “I don’t buy it. You can’t tell me it’s easy being his assistant.”
Amara takes a sip of her cocktail and makes a clicking sound with her tongue.
She fucking hates vodka. But no one would ever guess.
Then she looks over at me again. “Oh, I never said it’s easy working for him. I just said we do well together, that’s all.”
Her response earns a smile and even a laugh from several people at the table, though it is brimmed with that salt I warned her about. My dad’s face hasn’t changed, which either tells me he’s not buying it or he’s swaying to her charm too.
I almost think it just might be the latter.
The night carries on. Everyone floats around the rooftop, conversing separately in groups. My mother goes on about her recent trip to Tiffany’s where shejust could not resist a pendant necklace despite having so manyand Baron and Maverick are talking cars.
Meanwhile, my dad pulls me aside by the bar where I am getting my second drink for the night. I blame it on the caviar being a little saltier for my taste. But really, most of the salt is in his comments.
My dad has never been one to take a hint. Or he just doesn’t give a shit.
“You’re playing with fire, son,” he tells me as we both lean on the bar.
“Isn’t that what we do?” I ask, sucking my teeth as the bourbon burns its way down my esophagus.
He looks down at my drink. “Goose is easier on the stomach.”
“Yeah, well, whiskey has a better burn.” It’s a play on words, but he’s not entertained.
“All I’m saying is, I hope you know what you’re doing,” he goes on. “Turning down a union with the Chadovichs is asking for war.”
“Right. Because what we have going on right now is peace,” I say without looking at him. Not because I’m afraid he might be making some kind of face—I’m just not in the mood.
“A cocky mouth won’t prepare you for that kind of battle, son,” he warns me.
That’s enough for me to drag my eyes over to him. “You think we can’t win?”
“Need I remind you, the Chadovichs, when provoked, play for blood. I’d rather not risk losing someone near and dear to my heart over a reckless game of dick measuring.”
