I keep my face the way it always is, but it won't quite hold. The corner of my mouth keeps threatening to lift every time I catch sight of him.
Ten minutes later, we run into a woman from his old neighborhood. She asks after his mother, and Lance answers easy, like they've known each other for years. Then he nods toward me.
“This is George.”
After a while, I let go before anyone else sees us, easing my hand free without comment.
Lance reaches back and takes it again. No words. He just holds on tighter, like he’s making sure I understand I’m not going anywhere.
We don’t talk about what we are. I don’t know if it matters right now.
I let myself feel it while it lasts.
That evening, Lance pulls me down a hallway I haven’t been in before.
“Dad’s home tonight, finally back from Geneva.” He glances over his shoulder. “Come meet him, officially.”
He pushes open a heavy door.
The room is dim with deep green walls and a fire crackling at the far end. Bookshelves line both sides, many of the spines cracked and worn. A chessboard sits on a low table near the fire, pieces scattered mid-game. The air carries a faint trace of tobacco from an open humidor.
Marcus is already sunk into one of the leather armchairs, ankle crossed over his knee, glass resting against his chest. Their father stands at a drinks cart against the wall, jacket still on, pulling the stopper from a decanter.
He turns when he hears the door.
Older, a blend of both his sons. Broad build like Marcus. The same blue-gray eyes they both have, but on him they read differently. Less of Lance's live-wire openness, more of Marcus's locked door. Silver threads through his hair at the temples.
This is the man who built the Bradford name into one of the most respected legal legacies in the Pacific Northwest. Lance told me his name appears on buildings, scholarships, court filings, and more than a few law textbooks gathering dust on shelves.
He eases the stopper back into the decanter before turning fully toward me. There's no hurry in the movement. No need for one.
I cross the room.
He offers his hand when I reach him. His grip is firm, measured.
“Apologies for not meeting you sooner. Richard Bradford.”
“George Torres-Macklin.”
“Lance has spoken about you.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you too, sir.”
The man gives a short nod. “Please, just Richard.” He gestures toward the seating. “Sit. I hope you’ve been enjoying Seattleso far.”
There are two leather armchairs by the fire. Lance and I take the wide couch across from them. He reaches for the tray on the low table—cured meats, a wedge of sharp cheese, olives, a few slices of bread—and builds a small plate for me.
Marcus watches the fire over the rim of his glass. “How’s the shop holding up?” he asks, looking at me.
“Hanging in there.” I shift my weight, the leather creaking under me. “As you already know, got some pressure from a corporate buyer circling. Trying to keep it from going that direction.”
Richard, settling into the second chair now, glances over. “Really. How does it look? Any real chance of fighting them off?”
“Working on it.” I keep it general. Don’t know how much Lance has told them, and I thought I wasn’t about to lay out the whole mess. “They’ve already talked to my landlord. A couple suppliers too. Feels like they’re working the angles before they even make a formal offer.”
“It’s not just you?” Richard says, leaning forward slightly. “This particular group—what’s the name?”
“ProMotive.”
