Grace’s brow wrinkles. “You call Uncle CJ annoying all the time.” She looks to Carter, who’s staring at his brother with one brow raised, and repeats, “He does. ‘Specially when you whine about work stuffs.”
“Is that so?” Carter asks.
Claire clears her throat. “Jacob is home with his father, my husband, Mads. It didn’t seem like he’d be needed for a simple dinner.” She looks around the table, and somehow, even her gaze is condescending.
“Your husband’s name is Mads?” Kayla inquires. “I know a guy named Mads too. Never heard of another one. He wouldn’t happen to work at South Peach bar, does he?”
I can’t tell whether Kayla is serious or not. Claire can’t either, I guess, because she scowls as she answers. “My husband is not a bartender. He’s a banker. And his name is Madison, but he prefers Mads.”
Kayla shrugs. “Understandable. The name thing, not the bartender thing. There’s nothing wrong with being a bartender. Mads is my friend. He’s cool and got his name because he’s a little . . .” She twirls a finger by her ear. “We make sure we don’t get him mad.”
I doubt Claire’s husband is cool. He’s probably a stuffy numbers type that wears his socks in bed. I can’t imagine she’d have it any other way.
“Harrumph,” Claire says as she stabs a crouton and shoves it in her mouth.
From somewhere beneath the table, a phone rings. Everyone looks at each other, eyes questioning.
“Oh, that’s me. Excuse me,” Cole says, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stands, stepping out of the room, but even in the hallway, we can hear his muffled speaking. “Hello?” He’s quiet for a moment, presumably listening, and then says, “Yeah, I got it. No worries. You’re saving me from a boring family business dinner. I’ll see ya in a few.”
When he pokes his head around the corner, I half-expect Charles to demand that Cole sit his butt down for this ‘boring family business dinner’， but he doesn’t get the chance. Cole throws a two-fingered wave and says, “Duty calls. Nice to meet you, Elena, Claire. Make sure my brother takes care of you, Luna. He can be an asshole.”
I giggle in surprise as Cole disappears down the hall. Less than a half-second later, the front door opens and closes. Beneath the table, Carter puts his hand on my thigh, squeezing firmly, and my tiny laughter stops instantly. I can feel the weight of his touch, the power in his grip, and the heat spreading from his fingertips to my center. I squirm, not sure whether I want more or for him to stop, and Carter whispers out of the side of his mouth, “You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. This is madness. Complete and utter madness. Does he know what he’s doing to me? With his touches, his kisses, his . . . kindness? Is it some sort of joke—look at what I can do to the poor, young, inexperienced weirdo? Watch me wind her up and send her spinning?
If I were sitting on my couch at home, wearing sweats, with my tablet in my hands, watching this dinner on the TV screen, this whole thing would be hilarious. Everyone is cutting each other with verbal knives, the tension is palpable, and we’ve barely been served our salads.
But I’m not at home and this isn’t scripted for television. I’m right in the middle of the drama.
Hell, I’m part of the drama.
And that’s not usually how I roll. I prefer hiding on the outskirts, but with Carter at my side and his hand on my leg, this craziness seems manageable. Or at least enjoyable in a small, twisted way.
Like improv dinner theater. As long as it doesn’t turn into a murder mystery, I’m probably . . . maybe . . . sorta okay.
Maybe I can even help . . . if I talk about the one thing I’m comfortable discussing.
“Elena, did you see the news about the museum’s upcoming exhibition? The month-long showing of Digital Immersion Through Virtual Reality. It’s ground-breaking technology that’ll bring art to life in a new way. Maeve—that’s my boss—is organizing the installation, and I’ll do tours with groups as they approach the pieces in our world and then use VR headsets to dive into them in an immersive way, where it seems as though they’re a part the art, able to trace brushstrokes with their fingertips, move about the scene, and more.”
Did I breathe at all while rambling that? I’m not sure.
What I am sure of? Carter’s pinkie finger is point-oh-two inches higher on my thigh and there’s a quiet rumble of approval in his throat.
“That sounds interesting,” Elena says uncertainly. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a VR anything, much less art.”
“I would be delighted to do a private tour for you,” I offer. “In addition to experiencing the art, you could see how a short-term exhibition is handled at the museum. See if you’re comfortable showcasing some of Thomas’s collection.”
“What?” Claire screeches, slamming her napkin on the table. “You’re giving away Uncle Thomas’s art to some museum?”
Her overreaction sends a cold shiver down my spine, and I try to walk it back. “No, no. Not giving the museum anything. Only exhibiting, for a short time. To share Thomas’s collection in his honor.”
“You two want to share in Uncle Thomas’s everything, don’t you?” Claire snipes.
“Claire!” Elena says harshly. More gently, and with a pat of Claire’s hand, Elena adds, “You make it sound like they’re trying to steal Thomas away from us. He’s gone, dear. I know you were close, and it hurts, but . . . he’s gone.”
Charles adopts an expression of kind concern. “I think we can all appreciate the pain of losing someone. We certainly don’t want to dig in an open wound, but it’s also the survivors’ responsibility to take the best care of what’s left behind. Blue Lake Assets can help with that.”
I listen politely as Carter, Charles, and Elena direct the conversation to the Cartwright portfolio. Part of it is because it’s totally over my head, given that I have a grand total of three hundred dollars in my bank account and they’re talking about millions of dollars. But another reason I stay quietly watchful is Carter. He told me how worried he was about his dad walking over him on this deal, but truthfully, Carter is the one doing the majority of the talking and all the wooing.
I’m not sure Elena even likes Charles, which probably isn’t good, I guess. But I’m cheering Carter on with every smile Elena flashes, every concern of hers that Carter alleviates, and every look of approval I see on Cameron’s face. Not Charles, because he’s staying in deal-mode, but Cameron doesn’t have a dog in this fight, so he’s watching as a spectator and seems impressed by his brother.
I wonder if Carter knows that Cameron feels that way?
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
CARTER
As the dinner plates are swept away from the table, I feel like I’m making some real headway with Elena. Like I expected, Dad is being too much, but I’m doing what I can to balance him out.
What I didn’t expect is that having Luna at my side would be more than just an ‘in’ to discuss art. She hasn’t said much since the conversation switched to business, but her gentle support is probably the only thing getting me through this dinner. It has nothing to do with Renoir, brushstrokes, or Thomas Cartwright’s collection, but with her unwavering belief that I can do this.