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Bennett

About a half hour later, we arrive outside the large brownstone in Beacon Hill.

I’ve always loved my father’s home, the warmth of the red brick exterior and the vibrant, well-styled interior. It’s an older historic home that was passed down to my father through his father’s side of the family, one of many Reiner family properties.

The Reiner family history traces back through decades of investment group funds, massive sports team owners, and one major private manufacturer—but it started back in the 1880s with massive success in mining businesses. And the Reiner family always had sons. Jonathan Reiner, my grandfather, had three sons—Jacob, Jonathan, and Adam, my father.

At this point, no one in our family technically needed to work for a living. But my uncle Jacob entered the family business of investment banking. My dad played one year in the NHL and went back to law school after his injury, starting his own immediately well-respected firm. It was only Jonathan who rebelled against the Reiner family rules and disappeared from family photos altogether.

Overall, most of my family is cold and distant. But my father is different, always has been.

“You’re—” Paloma pauses and clears her throat. “This is your house?”

“My dad’s.” I nod, rubbing the back of my neck a little self-consciously. “He’s . . . his family is generationally wealthy.”

“Yeah.” She snorts, stepping up at my side, eyes still running over the ivy-laden brick. “No kidding.”

I reach for my keys, but before I can slot them into the keyhole, the door opens.

My dad is standing on the threshold, suit still on, sans jacket, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

“Bennett?”

I nearly swallow my tongue at his tone. “Sorry. I didn’t call—I just thought—”

“No, no. You’re fine. I’m glad to see you.” He reaches forward for a tight, solid hug, before pulling back and glancing toward Paloma still in the doorway, with Seven sitting at her feet. It was her suggestion that we bring him.

“This is Paloma. We’re—I’m going to cook for her, if that’s okay.”

My dad’s eyes brighten, and a smile replaces his previous anxious expression. “Oh, absolutely. I’ll let you show her around and just be in my office if you need me, all right?” He grins at my date politely before backing away from the door with a quick, “Pleasure to meet you, Paloma.”

If she says something back, I don’t hear, too focused on thinking of whether to show her around first or feed her.

But knowing I won’t be able to focus on anything else until she’s eaten, I guide her toward the kitchen.

Paloma follows me through the long corridor, coming to a brief stop at the sight of my father’s one-and-only NHL jersey framed in the living room.

“Seven?” she asks.

My throat feels tight, skin heating. “Yeah.”

Adam Reiner, lucky number seven . . . my hero as a kid. My hero now, who I named my dog after. She’s the first one to catch it.

Paloma sits at the countertop while I start on our meal—braised beef with a quick garlic butter pasta and roasted vegetables.

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, wiping my hands on the towel over my shoulder once everything is cooking. “We have a few things up here, but there’s an entire wine cellar downstairs.”

Her cheeks flush red, hands freezing where she was previously tapping her nails over the marble. “I don’t drink, really.”

“Me either,” I say, feeling another strange stir of relief wash over me. “How about sparkling grape juice?”

It feels silly to suggest it, a children’s drink for a New Year’s party, but she lights up.

“I’ve never had it. But it sounds good.”

I pour her a drink, the light pink liquid bright against the big crystalline glass, and hand it to her by the stem. While the beef cooks, I offer to show her around.

We trail slowly through the three-story building. I let her stop and ghost her fingers over the extreme number of baby pictures lining the walls and bookshelves. Before we leave the main level, I take her to the plot in the back where my dad cares for my herb garden.