“Personally, I thinkprincess locked in a toweris more fitting,” Ford divulges.
“Oh, one hundred percent,” I agree.
Sober as ever, Hawke interjects, “The question is, why’d Tight Ass let Cobie out for tonight?” Unlike Jagger, Hawke is missing his tux jacket. With his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, his tattooed forearms on full display, Hawke scratches his jaw, lost in thought, though I’m not sure why.
Whywouldn’tCobie be here? Unless their father is as overprotective as his sons? Or maybe it’s a hierarchy thing. She has a vagina instead of a penis, so she’s inferior to her siblings? I wouldn’t be surprised. From what little I’ve heard, the guy’s an ass.
“Maybe if I have another drink, I’ll ask him,” Ford decides.
Rolling her eyes, Cobie steals Ford’s almost empty glass and sets it on her opposite side. “Or you could show me your moves on the dance floor since we all know you guys would crap your pants before letting me dance with someone who isn’t family.”
Her comment is almost enough to pull a smile from Hawke, but he keeps it in check. “She’s not wrong.”
Jagger looks down at me. “Care to dance?”
“Maybe we eat first?” I ask.
“Good call.” Jagger pulls out my chair. “Here.”
Taking a seat, I smile up at him. “Thank you.”
He bends and kisses me before sitting in the empty chair beside me when a low voice interrupts, “Well, would you look at that? Apparently, my son does have manners.”
I glance up, connecting the comment to the man who said it, when my lips part in surprise. It’s like looking into a crystal ball and being given a glimpse of the future Harden brothers in all their aged glory. Hawke’s eyes. Jagger’s jaw. Ford’s build. The only thing missing is the warmth I’ve grown accustomed to. No, this man is as cold as ice. He holds my gaze for a solid two seconds, then glances at his eldest son. “And you even managed to leave the bruises at home for once. What is this feeling?” Hishand rubs at his chest with a puzzled look. “Is this…is this what pride feels like?”
“Better soak it up, Old Man. Won’t last long.”
“I’m well aware,” he tosses back at Jagger as waiters begin circling the tables and placing plates in front of each of us. Some kind of salad with a dinner roll. It looks…leafy. Picking up the fork, I stab a crouton and take a bite. It’s good. Garlicky and salty and crunchy. I scoop another bite, this time with a few of the vegetables, and it’s official. The creamy vinaigrette is to die for.
“Sure, dive right in,” Mr. Harden tells me.
I grimace and set the fork back onto the linen tablecloth. Shame clogs my throat and makes it almost impossible to swallow the half-chewed bite in my mouth.
“Oooo, thanks, Daddy.” With a wink at me, Cobie picks up her fork and starts eating.
Relief rolls through me at the simple act, so I mouth, “Thank you,” to her. She smiles back.
I knew I liked her.
Once the waiters have finished setting everything down, they move to the next table, and Mr. Harden strikes up the conversation right where he left off. “Nice of you to make it, son.”
“Happy to attend,” Jagger lies. “Tell me, where’s Uncle Judge?”
His father’s amusement falls. “Couldn’t make it. I’ll be sure to bitch to him later about our evening.”
“No doubt he’s already counting down the minutes,” Ford mumbles into his glass.
A beat of silence passes, the air around us charging. I have no idea why. Honestly, it makes me feel like I’m missing something. Like I’m coming in at half-time and can’t view the scoreboard. It makes sense, though. Jagger’s mini-meltdown earlier. Why he couldn’t sleep all because of one conversation with his fatherover the phone. I wonder what kind of spiraling will transpire after an entire evening with him?
“Are you going to introduce us?” Jagger’s father asks.
Jagger clears his throat and motions to me. “This is my girlfriend, Violet.”
“Violet,” Mr. Harden repeats. He says my name as if he’s tasting it. “Very nice to meet you.” His offered hand hangs in the air, so I set down my fork again and take it, unsure what else to do. It’s icy and firm, like the man’s stare. Yeesh. I fight the urge to wipe my hand against my dress in hopes of erasing the heebie jeebies crawling along my palm from the short contact. Okay, I’m being a little dramatic. I’m a big girl. I can shake a man’s hand. But still. I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt more unnerved in my entire life. I get it now. Why the man is successful. It’s how he carries himself. How he speaks. How he exerts dominance without even uttering a word or lifting a finger. It’s innate. And genetic because his sons have the same traits, only theirs are less polished. Give it a few years. I’m sure they’ll catch up. The question is, when they do, will it make their father feel proud or threatened?
Letting me go, Mr. Harden takes a seat on Cobie’s opposite side and straight across from me. I’m grateful for the distance but not for becoming the recipient of his constant, frigid stare. And just like that, the table grows silent and awkward and unlike any interaction I’ve ever witnessed in the Harden house. So much so, if someone told me everyone was body snatched, and I was sitting with a group of aliens, I’d believe it. Where are Ford’s smart-ass comments? Where’s Cobie’s lighthearted laughter or Hawke’s quiet but calming presence? Where’s Jagger’s sharp-tongue and quick wit? It’s all gone, replaced with a dark, heavy cloud hanging right over our table.
This is going to be a long night.
