Brie
“AREYOUSUREyou’re ready for this?”
Connor runs his hands through his hair, smooths it down, then shoves them in the pockets of his khakis. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with them. With his whole body, really. His eyes are darting all over the place and one foot taps restlessly on the sidewalk.
I put a hand on his forearm, feeling the tension in his tight muscles, and squeeze. “Are you?”
We’re standing outside Boqueria, the tapas bar in midtown Connor and his father finally agreed on for lunch after much negotiation. We’re a few minutes early for our reservation, but Connor’s been this way since he got out of bed this morning. I’ve never seen him so keyed up.
“No,” he admits with a heavy sigh. “But the sooner we go in, the sooner we get this over with.”
I hate that he views lunch with his father as some sort of a chore. An obligation to be endured until he can come up with some reason to escape. As annoying as they can be sometimes, my family is practically the Brady Bunch, and it breaks my heart that Connor doesn’t have that kind of support system.
I guess that’s why I offered to come with him today. He deserves someone in his corner.
He opens the door and ushers me into the restaurant. The hostess sits us in a booth at the back of the room, out of the flow of traffic and away from most of the other diners. Smart move. It’s almost like she knows things might get uncomfortable.
Connor’s dad isn’t there yet, so we order drinks to get us started—sangria for me, a house Bloody Mary for Connor with guindilla pepper and gin instead of vodka. Alcohol and family reunions can be a dangerous combination. But Connor’s not one to overindulge. And I’m hoping some liquid courage will loosen him up a little before his father shows up.
“Sláinte.” I raise my glass to clink with his.
He touches his glass to mine. “I didn’t know you spoke Gaelic.”
“That’s the extent of my comprehension.”
That coaxes a smile from him. I’m momentarily reassured, but then there’s some sort of commotion in the bar, and his smile fades as quickly as it appeared.
I twist around, craning my neck. From my vantage point, I can’t see what all the fuss is about, no matter how much I twist and crane. But I can hear the collective cheer that rises up, and the applause that follows.
I turn back to Connor. He’s sitting across from me, looking like he wants to crawl under the table and die. “What do you suppose that is?”
“That would be my father,” he says, his voice flat and resigned. “The reigning master of American crime fiction. If you don’t believe me, ask theNew York Times Book Review.”
He takes a huge hit of his Bloody Mary. “He likes to make an entrance. Brace yourself.”
I follow his example—to a degree—and sip my sangria. “How bad could it be?”
“You’re about to find out.”
He gestures behind me. I swivel around and see a man approaching us from the bar area. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he’s Connor’s dad. He’s the spitting image of his son, albeit about thirty years older with a distinguished touch of gray in the dark hair at his temples and the beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes.
He’s dressed in dark brown dress pants, a crisp white button down, and a tweed jacket, complete with patches on the elbows. If he threw on a bow tie, he could pass for Indiana Jones. Or Matt Smith’s Dr. Who. Which I only know because Jake forced me to watch all forty of his episodes when we were snowed in one weekend last year.
“Sorry I’m late.” Vincent Dow’s words say one thing, but his flippant, I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anyone-but-myself attitude says something completely different. He slides into the seat opposite Connor, not even bothering to shake his son’s hand or, God forbid, hug him. “You know how it is. Everyone wants an autograph. Can’t disappoint the fans.”
Connor sets his glass down on the table with a hollow thunk. “But disappointing your family is okay.”
Vincent ignores his son’s dig and snaps his fingers to signal for a waitress, like King Tut summoning one of his servants. Then his gaze shifts to me, like he’s noticing for the first time that he and Connor aren’t alone at the table. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.”
“You remember Brie Lawson.” Connor puts a protective—or is it possessive?—arm around my shoulder. “Jake’s little sister.”
Vincent’s eyes drift down to my breasts, lingering long enough there make me feel a little icky before going back to my face. “Not so little anymore.”
I’m pretty sure the waitress’s timely arrival is the only thing that stops Connor from leaping across the table and strangling his father. She takes Vincent’s drink order—bourbon, neat—and goes off giggling with his autograph on a napkin in her pocket.
“Still like them young, I see.” Connor mutters.
I dig my nails into his thigh and give him a warning glare. We talked about this on the way over.
