His expression doesn’t change when he sees us, but his attention sharpens.
“Enya.” He steps forward when Maggie peels away to greet someone else. “You look well.”
“Thank you, Daddy. You, too.”
He lowers his voice. “I’m glad you came.”
I don’t say I didn’t have a damn choice because Ididhave one, a choice that is, I just don’t know how to walk away from him. After all these years, I still hate to disappoint him.
“There’s been enough noise lately,” he continues. “Appearances matter.”
“I understand.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s checking for cracks. Finding none, he nods once, satisfied. “No waves, today, okay?”
Like I ever make waves.
“Yes, Daddy.”
Right then, someone draws his attention away, and I exhale slowly, hoping for a reprieve and to be left alone with my glass of water with a lemon twist. I got it from a passing waiter as a prop. Maggie didn’t ask why I’m not drinking—she isn’t, either.
We don’t drink in public.
Daddy forbids it.
“You get drunk, you do something stupid, it impacts me. So, drink in private. Got it?”
But I can’t catch a break because a familiar voice calls my name. My stomach sinks.
Barclay. My ex. The State Department climber who once told me I was ‘refreshing’ only to later admit he’d really meant ‘useful.’
He stands in front of me in an expensive tux that he probably rented, a statuesque woman in emerald silk draped on his arm.
“Enya, how are you?”
“Good,” I mumble, looking for an escape.
“Are you”—he gives me an insolent once over—“still running your little flower shop?”
He always called it that, just like that, with disdain, like it was beneath him.
Asshole.
Obviously, I have terrible taste in men.
Barclay is a complete dick with good acting skills. It took me three months to see through him. Sure, my ego was bruised, but not my heart. We dated. The sex was mediocre. His intellect was average. He wouldn’t even make a footnote if I ever wrote a memoir.
“Yes,” I reply pithily.
His date smiles like she already feels sorry for me. “That’s adorable.”
“This is Kendall Chandler,” he introduces me to his companion. “She’s a staffer for….”
I zone him out as he drops names like pigeons drop shit at the National Mall.
“So,” Barclay continues, voice dripping with faux concern, “are you here alone?”
I open my mouth—no idea what I’ll say—when an arm slides around my waist.
