Arriving at the country club, I pull under the portico. The valet, a boy who looks like he’s eighteen but carries the practiced subservience of a career butler, opens my door. I hand him the keys without looking him in the eye.
Because I’m already checking my cuffs, straightening my blazer, and putting on the mask. It’s a physical sensation, theway the Thompson skin slides back over my own. It’s cooler, tighter, and infinitely more durable.
The lobby’s air conditioning hits me like a wall of ice, instantly drying the sweat on the back of my neck. It’s a specific kind of cold—the kind that costs money to maintain in July. Knowing exactly where they’ll be, I head to table seven. The corner table with the unobstructed view of the eighteenth green. It’s the table my father has occupied for thirty years.
We’ve made multi-million-dollar deals at that table.
I see them before they see me.
Father is leaning back, a gin and tonic already in his hand, looking every bit the patriarch in his cream-colored linen suit. Meanwhile, my mother, Elaine, is the picture of architectural precision.
And then there are the Davises. Bill Davis is leaning in, laughing at something my father said. He’s a man built of steak and golf, a silent partner in the Henderson deal and a loud presence in every room he enters. His wife, Cynthia, is nodding along, her smile as fixed and glittering as the diamonds on her fingers.
But it’s the woman sitting between my mother and my empty chair that makes my heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons.
Amanda Davis.
She looks perfect—and that’s the problem with Amanda. She never looks anything less than a high-fashion editorial. Right now, she’s wearing a sleeveless red dress that clings to her in a way that suggests she knows exactly how many eyes are on her. Color of a warning sign, and I’m walking straight toward it.
My mother glances my way as I approach. “There he is,” she says, her voice carrying just enough to let the surrounding tables know the guest of honor has arrived. “We were thinking the traffic from the…outskirts was worse than we thought.”
The outskirts. A jab at the Matthews’ neighborhood. I feel the burn of it in my chest, but I don’t let it reach my face. Truthfully, I like Jake and his lifestyle—not that my parents would approve of such things.
Funny how I spent years working toward independence and winning at it—new woman, apartment, finances separate from the official Thompson name—only for a bit of mold to destroy it.
And now I’m stuck. Back to where I started.
Including with Amanda.
“Traffic was fine, Mother,” I say, my voice smooth and modulated. I greet my father with a nod, shake Bill Davis’s hand, and offer a polite smile to Cynthia. Then I turn to my ex-fiancée. “Amanda, I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”
“A happy surprise,” my mother interjects before Amanda can speak. “We’re all family, after all.”
I take my seat. It’s a narrow space, wedged between my mother and Amanda. Elaine has orchestrated this seating chart with the tactical brilliance of a five-star general. I am pinned.
“Hi, Skyler,” Amanda says. Her voice is a low, melodic purr I used to find comforting back when we opted for PB&Js over five-course meals.
Yet, here we are. A five-course meal and no current fiancée in sight.
Sigh.
Before I can even reach for my water glass, she leans in. Her perfume hits me—a heavy, floral scent with an undertone of spice. It’s the same one she wore the night I proposed to her. None of this is an accident.
She places her hand on my forearm. “Elaine was just telling us about the Henderson project.”
“It’s a significant undertaking,” I say, shifting my arm slightly. I try to reach for the breadbasket, hoping the movement willforce her to let go. She doesn’t. She just moves her hand with me, her grip light but unshakable.
“The Henderson atrium is going to be the jewel of the downtown skyline,” my father booms. “And Skyler is the only one who could have designed it. He understands the balance between tradition and modern utility.”
“Just like we used to talk about,” Amanda says, her eyes locking onto mine. “Remember when we planned our wedding? Your mother had the most beautiful vision for us, Skyler. She understood exactly what we needed.”
“That was a long time ago, Amanda,” I say.
“Not that long,” she counters, her fingers lingering on my sleeve. She leans closer, her shoulder brushing against mine. I can feel the heat of her body, a stark contrast to the chilled air of the dining room. “I was looking at the photos from the gallery opening last month. You still have a way of looking at a blueprint, Skyler. I’ve missed seeing that intensity.”
To increase the distance between us, I subtly lean toward my mother. But Elaine is busy discussing the merits of the club’s new sommelier with Cynthia Davis.
No escape.
