A group of eager autograph seekers chooses that inopportune moment to approach our table. Vincent spends the next ten minutes soaking up their adulation and signing anything and everything put in front of him—napkins, take-out menus, even one woman’s breast. Connor and I are left to sit in stunned silence watching the spectacle unfold, our presence—hell, our existence—seemingly forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent says when his fan club finally leaves, even though it’s clear from the way he’s basking in the afterglow of their attention that he’s not. “It’s been this way ever since the studio announced that they’re making a Dax Russell movie. All the publicity. I can’t go anywhere without being recognized.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you hate that,” Connor mutters.
I frown over a forkful of daitles con beicon—dates stuffed with blue cheese and almonds and wrapped in bacon. They’re proof that whoever coined the phrase “everything’s better with bacon” is a freaking genius. “Dax Russell?”
“His alter ego,” Connor explains. “The hero of all his novels.”
“You haven’t read any of my books?” Vincent asks. “Try Dying?Grab And Smash?Drop Dead Fed?”
From his tone, you’d think he was asking whether I’d ever heard of the Beatles. Or indoor plumbing. I shake my head. “Most of my reading is plays or scripts, with an occasional romance novel thrown in for pure pleasure.”
“There’s a bookstore on the next block. I could sign one for you when where done here.”
“We have plans after lunch,” Connor lies, spearing a bacon-wrapped date with his fork and popping it into his mouth. “What’s so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”
“Fiona is pregnant.” Vincent leans back and sips his bourbon, looking like the poster child for masculine pride. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next words out of his mouth were to brag about his super swimmers. “You’re going to have a little brother.”
“Half-brother,” Connor corrects him.
Vincent lowers his glass. “You could at least congratulate me.”
“Congratulations. I hope you’ll be a better parent this time. Maybe start by not cheating on his mother.”
Vincent’s jaw twitches and his eyes narrow into angry slits. If I didn’t understand the expression if looks could kill before, I do now. “I hope he’ll be a better son instead of a complete disappointment.”
Oh. No. He. Didn’t.
Connor’s fork clatters to the floor and he grips the edge of the table so hard I can see the whites of his knuckles. I shove my plate away, my appetite gone even for food made better by bacon.
“A disappointment? Are you kidding me?” I’m loud enough that even from our booth in the back people can hear me, and I can sense that they’re starting to stare. But I’m past caring. Connor may be too polite to cause a scene, but I’m not.
“You have no idea of the kind of man your son is, do you? He’s smart and funny and thoughtful and kind.” I count them off on my fingers as I go. “He’s been a good friend to my brother for over twenty years. He let me stay with him when I had nowhere else to go. Plus, he’s a hugely successful businessman. I think you’d at least respect that. Did you know his club is one of the most sought-after hot spots in New York City? And they’re in the middle of a major renovation, adding another VIP section and a screening room for first-run movies and live-streamed concerts. When that’s done, it will be even harder to get into.”
I stop to catch my breath and get a glimpse of Connor out of the corner of my eye. He’s released his white-knuckle grip on the table and the grim set of his mouth is gone, replaced by a bemused smile.
He stands, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet. Then he throws a wad of bills down in front of his father. “That should more than cover lunch. Tell Fiona I’ll send something for the baby.”
Without giving his father a chance to respond, he heads for the exit, dragging me along with him. We’re almost out the door before I remember something.
“Wait.” I stop, forcing him to stop with me. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
His brows knot. “Did you forget something?”
“No, but you did.”
I race back to our table. Vincent is still there, knocking back what’s left of his bourbon. So is the box of stuff that belonged to Connor’s mom, right where he left it under his seat.
“Did you come back to lecture me some more?” Vincent asks.
“No. I think I made my point. I came back for this.” I bend down and scoop up the box.
He raises his empty glass to let a passing waiter know he’s ready for round number three. Two too many, in my not-so-humble opinion. “Connor was always a bit of a mama’s boy.”
Mama’s boy? Vincent Dow may be Connor’s father, but he really has no clue who his son is. “Maybe that’s because she didn’t see him as a—what was it? Oh, yes. Complete disappointment.”
“I thought you were done lecturing me.”
