“My father’s a lot of things, sir. But he doesn’t make made-up money.”
Richard’s brows lifted.
I kept going because apparently I had inherited more of Richard’s inability to shut up than I liked admitting.
“He sees markets before other people understand where they are. He’s cold. He’s ruthless. He’s hard on people. But he’s not a crook.”
Isa looked at me.
Trent’s smile tightened.
“Wall Street boys always have a pretty explanation.”
“I’m not a Wall Street boy.”
“No?” He glanced at my shoulders. “Football, then.”
“For now.”
“Right.” His tone warmed falsely. “Until the real world starts.”
Something in me went still.
Isa stepped closer to me. “Drew’s real world is doing just fine.”
Her father looked at her.
She looked back.
For one second, I thought maybe the room would shift in my favor.
Then Mrs. Calloway came up beside me and touched my arm.
Actually touched my arm.
“Oh, Trent, stop interrogating him before dinner. The poor boy just got here.”
Poor boy.
Her fingers stayed on my bicep, her manicured nails tapped over my tan skin. I got the ‘ick’, looked down at her hand—then at Isa.
She saw it.
Her face went pale with embarrassment, then pink with anger.
Her mother didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“You must be starving,” Mrs. Calloway said to me. “Football players are always starving, aren’t they?”
I stepped back smoothly enough that her hand fell away.
“Most of the time.”
“Well, good. I told the caterer to make extra.”
Trent laughed under his breath. “We don’t usually need to feed an offensive line around here.”
“Wide receiver,” I said.
