His grip was firm in the way men made grips firm when they wanted you to know they still had one.
“Drew Travers,” his brows lifted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Or is it Montgomery?”
There it was.
Not even inside five minutes.
Isa’s fingers twitched at her side.
I smiled.
“Travers-Montogmery.”
He hummed like I’d given the wrong answer to a question he had already decided was rigged. “Your father’s Richard Montgomery.”
“My mother’s name is Travers I kept it.”
“Mm.”
His eyes moved over me again, and I could see him deciding what box to put me in. Football player. Stanford. Hedge fund money. Affair son. Daughter’s boyfriend—possible threat.
Possible score.
“I’ve seen your father on Fox Business,” he said.
Mrs. Calloway laughed lightly from beside the staircase. “Richard watches all that market noise like it’s a sport.”
“Market noise is exactly what it is,” Richard said, taking a sip of his drink. “No offense.”
People always said no offense right before handing you the offense like a wrapped gift.
“None taken,” I said.
He smiled.
Didn’t believe me.
“You know what I mean,” he continued, leading us toward the den like the conversation was casual and not already a knife fight. “Hedge fund money. It’s all made-up money. Derivatives, shorts, leverage, moving numbers around until somebody else loses and your side wins.”
“Daddy,” Isa warned.
“What? I’m talking business.” He looked at me. “You can take it, can’t you?”
I could.
That was the problem.
I could take it.
I had taken worse from Richard. From Everett. From Beckett. From people who thought the Montgomery name meant I came preloaded with an apology.
But this was Isa’s father.
So I kept my voice even.
