“Dude.” I put my arms out. “It’s me. Come on.”
He moves to the desk, his fingers toying with a stack of papers. “I don’t trust Myrddin, do you?”
“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”
“If he’s curious about Ginny, and her father’s lawyered up with them somehow, I don’t know… It feels like she’s in danger.”
My head tilts. “You think he’s their lawyer?”
Art drops the papers, spinning around and leaning against the lip of the desk. “I think chances are high. Benny says they’re wanting to keep Leo in line, and there’s nothing better than a daughter to do that.”
He should tell her.
I want to say it to him, but if I push Art with direction, he’ll rage against it, the same way I did for so many years as a “fuck you” to the man.
My back hits the wall as I take him in.
His face is drawn, shoulders hunched, and it reminds me of when we were eight, his father ripping into him for missing a line in some press junket script. He hadn’t lost all his baby teeth, but his dad talked to him like he was a political liability instead of a kid.
And I related to that because if there’s one thing my own family’s always done, it’s try to mold me into something I’m not.
Art didn’t cry that day. He just stood there with his hands behind his back and his eyes locked on the grass, waiting for another verbal punch, and I left when I was told to leave, wishing I could spare him the pain of feeling like he wasn’t good enough.
Later I found him at the falls in the county park, throwing stones into the water with a busted lip. I picked up a pebble, stood beside him, and we skipped rocks until our arms ached and our families’ fucked-up burdens weighed on us a little less.
That’s when we cut our palms and made a pact.
The Silver Spoon Survivors’ Club.
Blood brothers. Loyalty. No questions asked. We may not be good enough for our families, but we’d be good enough for each other.
That loyalty still presses down like it’s the most important thing.
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
Chapter 4
Genevieve
Fourteen Months Ago
The key to a perfect crème brûlée is patience.
You can’t rush the torch. Can’t let the flame linger too long in one spot or you’ll burn the sugar.
The caramel needs to be glass smooth, to crack under a spoon like thin ice in winter.
My father taught me that when I was six, standing on a step stool in our kitchen, my small hands wrapped around his.
“Patience,mon chou,” he’d said. “Everything good requires patience.”
Around me, the kitchen of Cameliard hums with controlled chaos, the head chef Michel barking orders in rapid-fire French, the line cooks moving in a choreographed dance to the sounds of sizzles hitting hot pans.
Dinner service is my favorite part of the day. Mainly because it doesn’t give me space to ruminate on things like my lack of a sociallife or if my father will make it home at the end of each night.
Here at the restaurant, my biggest concern is whether the béchamel needs another minute or if the reduction is ready.
My phone rings.
