Like tension excited her.
Trent set down his fork. “You defending hedge funds at my Christmas table?”
“I’m defending facts.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
The air pulled tight.
Then Isa’s voice cut in, smooth and bright in that practiced way I was starting to understand came from too much childhood spent surviving rooms like this.
“Daddy, Drew does not work for his father. And I’m pretty sure no one wants a securities-law debate over mashed potatoes.”
Trent looked at her.
For a second, I saw something like surprise.
Then irritation.
Then he smiled at me without warmth.
“Fair enough. We’ll save it for dessert.”
I smiled back.
“Looking forward to it.”
Isa kicked me lightly under the table.
I squeezed her knee.
The rest of dinner dragged.
Mrs. Calloway kept asking questions that sounded sweet until you listened too closely.
Where did I summer?
Was my father’s place in Miami the primary residence or just one of them?
Did I see myself staying in California long-term or would I eventually “come back to where the real money is?
Had Richard met Isa?
What did he think of her?
That one made Isa go perfectly still.
I answered carefully.
“My father thinks Isa is impressive.”
Mrs. Calloway practically glowed.
Isa looked down at her plate.
And me?
