“Okay,” I say, and then mutter under my breath, “You kind of do, though.”
He rolls his eyes and whirls the bourbon glass, staring at the golden liquid inside. “The shoot went well,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself it’s true.
“Good,” I say anyway.
“At least,Ithought so.”
So, his daddidsay something.
I watch him for a bit longer, and though his expression remains controlled, he has other tells. The tense set of his shoulders. His long fingers fidgeting with the glass. The muscle twitching in his jaw. All subtle ticks I might not have noticed before, but I notice them now. I notice a lot about him now.
“You’re really upset,” I note.
He looks up at me, and at once, his body language shifts. He tamps down on the tensing, ticking, twitching, and leans back in his chair. “I’m not upset.”
“When Eli broke his nose, didn’t you tell him he was an idiot for getting upset over something your dad said?” He doesn’t respond, which essentially answers that question in the affirmative. “Want me to get you a pillow to scream into? Sometimes that helps.”
His mouth twitches. Just slightly. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Wanna talk it out? I really am a good listener, despite the word on the streets.” He doesn’t answer, so I proceed with caution. “What did he say?”
Landon sighs. “Nothing specific. Little comments here and there. He has more influence than he should for someone whose only contribution is financial. But that’s just how it works, I guess. Business.” His hand flexes around the glass. “I’d give anything to find another investor. Anything.”
I recall the night of the Ambien incident, how he told me he felt trapped, and wonder if this is what he was referring to. I’m not sure what the right thing to say is, so I speak from the heart. “I’m really sorry, Landon. I can’t imagine.”
He shrugs a shoulder, then tips back the rest of his drink. Ice clanks around the glass as he sets it on the table. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”
“I knowmyopinion doesn’t matter, but I thought the shoot went great. I was so impressed. I can’t wait to see the final result.”
It’s a moment before he responds, but when he does, it catches me off guard. “Thank you, Violet.”
And, as always, my insides shake as he says my name in that arresting voice of his, and we watch each other carefully. I wonder what he’s thinking. I doubt his brain is replaying my voice over and over the way mine’s replaying his, the deep timbre vibrating against the walls of my head.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, but I have a limited capacity for peace and quiet. Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Not that you care, but I think I’ll be gone for a few nights at the end of September. Going on a little trip.”
His eyes snap to mine. “A trip? To where?”
“Just this baking thing.”
His mouth twitches, and I almost get a smirk. Almost. “Bakingthing?Please. Elaborate.”
“It won’t interest you,” I say, already predicting his teasing remarks over the whole ordeal.
His brow quirks. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, eyes intent. “Tell me.”
I roll my eyes, because how can I say no to that stupid face? “Fine.” I take a deep breath and tell him in a rush. “It’sabakingconferencecalledTheSugarSpectacle.”
He blinks at me. I blink back. “Sorry? Was that English?”
I sigh. “It’s a baking conference called The Sugar Spectacle,” I repeat, annunciating each syllable with obnoxious clarity.
“Let me make sure I have this right,” he says slowly. “You want to go to abaking conferencecalledThe Sugar Spectacle?”
“Yes.”
