“Fucking, then.”
“It’s not for my fortune. Or for my apartment, according to you.”
“Who do you think will take over your father’s business when he retires?” Liam asked impatiently.
“That’s a long game if ever there was one.” I decided to take it a step farther and be even more ridiculous. “Maybe he’s an aspiring author and wants me to show my father his unpublished manuscript.”
“That’s probably it,” Liam said as though we’d solved the mystery of why a beautiful man like Arden would trifle with a toad like me.
I scoffed at that. “Or maybe he likes me because I’m a likable guy and not terrible to look at. Look, we enjoy each other’s company, and like I told Franco, I can take care of myself. I don’t need you all dumping on Arden or digging into his past. Let a man have his secrets.”
“Well,” Liam huffed. “I thought you’d appreciate the information.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.”
Liam then said he had plans to meet up with Charlemagne and some other writers to workshop their poems. “You’re welcome to join,” he added. “I’m sure we could offer you feedback on whatever it is you’re working on.”
“Maybe next time.” I wouldn’t survive Liam’s circle of magpies. I’d freely admit that my skin wasn’t thick enough. “And if I happen to bring Arden around again, don’t try to embarrass him like you did last night. It wasn’t nice, and I won’t tolerate it.”
Liam’s eyebrows rose and he shook his head in disbelief. “Choosing your lover over your friends already, Michael?”
“It’s not a contest, Liam.”
“Love is a madness most discreet,” he taunted.
“Don’t quote Shakespeare to me, motherfucker. And if you do, at least get it right.”
“I was condensing for clarity.”
“You dare abridge the bard?”
Liam laughed and I recalled then how we’d first become friends—through our shared love of wine and words. How we’d get leisurely drunk in our dorm room and stay up until the early morning reciting our favorite lines of poetry like it was some eighteenth-century Parisian salon. At least we never slept together.
“Arden was Shakespeare’s mother’s maiden name,” I said absently. “He told me his mother loved Shakespeare.” I left out that I’d been blowing him when he said it.
“If that’s even his real name,” Liam scoffed.
“Out with you.” I made a motion for him to scram. “Be nice to my new friend, or I won’t bring him around anymore.”
“Promise?” Liam said. I shooed him out of my apartment, then worked up the nerve to call my father because I needed to ask about the cabin.
I took a couple calming breaths while I entered his number. My dad was a total Type A personality. A fast-talking, deal-making New York City businessman. My mother was the West Coast, bottle-blonde version of my father. I didn’t know where I fell on the ball-busting spectrum, only that when he got on me about something, it generally made me want to do the opposite.
“You plan on writing while you’re there?” he asked when I told him of my plans. How I wished I had a job where my success wasn’t intrinsically linked to his.
“Thinking about it.”
“Better do more than think about it. Black Rook has been asking about your next mystery.”
Black Rook was the imprint who publishedCold Lake Chronicles. He’d said mystery, because that was all they were interested in acquiring.
“I’m working on a memoir,” I said.
My father’s discontent was made known to me by an exaggerated sigh. I imagined him in his seventh-story office in midtown Manhattan, looking down on the bustling city and bemoaning the son who wouldn’t follow his good advice when others paid through the nose for it.
