She is busy giving me a knowing smirk—like she’s amused by my use of the word friend. Her husband steps forward, shaking Keegan’s hand and introducing himself.
And he clearly connects the dots between Keegan’s last name and McQuade Development.
The conversation flows easily from there. Clara slides in subtle questions that imply she doesn’t believe Keegan and I are just friends, which I field with details about our history—both for her benefit and for my own, since I definitely need the reminder that this is not romantic. I’m less a date and more of an emotional support dog.
Clara’s husband, Steve, asks Keegan a lot of questions about McQuade Development, all of which Keegan fields easily. I do my part to sing Keegan’s praise whenever I can. Which is easy enough to do. The Langley’s are old-school Austin hippies, so it’s easy to win them over with the story of how Keegan transformed Hung Out to Dry from a campus dive bar into a thriving cornerstone of sustainability in the local restaurant industry.
Time passes, and I never need to trot out my Sasha persona because the Langleys are just too easy to talk to. Then they see someone else they know and make their excuses, leaving Keegan and me alone in the crowd.
He turns to me, his gaze playfully sharp. “I bet you think you’re pretty smart, huh?”
I mock curtsy. “You’re welcome.”
He takes my hand and leads me to a standing table, snagging a couple of appetizers and more wine on the way.
“Aren’t you always saying that I know everyone who’s anyone in Austin? And then you just so happen to know people I need to meet, and you don’t even give me a heads up?”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “In my defense, I didn’t remember Clara’s last name, and I didn’t recognize her until she turned around.”
Keegan makes a suspicious humming sound. “Likely story.”
We munch on appetizers in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I try to tell myself that everything is going exactly as planned, but my unease from earlier in the evening is still burrowing into the back of my mind.
I don’t have time to think about it too long though, because soon Keegan’s parents approach, dragging Bruce with them.
Keegan’s dad makes the introductions. The men do the hearty handshake, good old boy routine. Bruce shakes my hand, in a way that’s brusque and indifferent. It doesn’t bother me because it’s easy for people to overlook me and sometimes it gives me an advantage.
As he shakes hands with Keegan, he says, “The kid who owns the bar, right?”
Keegan nods. “Correct. Hung Out to Dry down near campus.”
Since Keegan isn’t likely to toot his own horn, I chime in. “Hung Out to Dry has flourished under his management. It’s gone from a local dive to a mainstay of the area and he’s created a model of sustainable business in Austin.”
Bruce gives a dismissive chuckle and claps Keegan on the shoulder. “Well sure, the eco-nut angle is admirable, but selling drinks to college students is like shooting fish in a barrel. Am I right?”
I grit my teeth.
Oh, he did not just belittle Keegan’s entire career! And ‘eco-nut angle?’ Is he kidding me with that bullshit?
Keegan chuckles in response, taking the jab on the chin.
So, I follow Keegan’s lead.
After all, we’re here to schmooze, not pick fights.
Still ... there’s no way I’m putting up with that behavior. I just have to find a way to politely put this man in his place. And that is something I am very good at doing.
The conversation shifts away from Keegan’s bar, and I can hear Johnny trying to shift the topic back to the project the McQuades are trying to pitch. I let him handle that and focus on sizing up Bruce.
I wish I’d thought to ask Keegan who we’re supposed to shmooze before now, because then I could have researched him online beforehand. First rule of advertising is always understand your market.
In lieu of that, I’ll have to figure him out based on what I see and what he says. Obviously, he has money to invest or the McQuades wouldn’t be bothering. And again, my gut says oil money. Old money in Texas comes from oil, banking, or land development, often some combination of all three. There’s lots of new, high-tech money in Texas, particularly in Austin, but that’s just not the vibe I get from Bruce.
His clothes are crisp and pristine, but his cowboy boots are worn, scuffed, and heavily creased. These aren’t the boots a poseur wears for show. They’re a working man’s boots. And his hands support my theory. They’re big and rough. Several of his fingers jut at odd angles like they were broken and set at home.
This isn’t a man who earned his money working in an office, so he’s not out of Houston, but probably West Texas—either ranching or farming, with oil payouts from mineral rights. Which, ironically, makes selling the green angle easier because he’s making money off the oil industry and likely isn’t emotionally invested in it.
Which means I just need to show him how profitable theeco-nut anglecan be.
