“My inheritance will come in stages. Twenty percent when I turn thirty. Another twenty percent when I turn thirty-five. So on and so forth.”
“What?” Avery asks in a shrill voice. She clears her throat, her prior tone accidental from surprise.
“My grandpa is a level-headed man. He’s established trusts for all of his children and grandchildren, but he set up the disbursements to make sure we still had to work our way through adulthood. I was raised never to count on his money. Plus, there are all sorts of stipulations to get the full disbursements. We have to be married by a certain age, have children, or prove we medically can’t. We have to live in a certain radius. It’s controlling of Gramps, actually.”
It’s the only reason my dad married my mom. She married for love. He married for a payout. My grandpa thought he was doing his son a favor by trying to rein in his dickish behavior, but all he did was make my mom an easy target.
Before I can say more, Angelo, dressed in a full suit, tie and all, arrives at our table with a plate of steamed dumplings and spicy duck sauce. He looks like a walking contradiction. His jet-black hair is slicked back, pulled into a tiny knot on the nape of his neck, yet his three-piece suit is pristine. I can see part of a tattoo wrapping around his thumb. Angelo and I use the same tattoo artist. His big-boy job as Rue 52’s manager was only because of my insistent recommendation to Gramps. I stand by it. He’s a hard worker and a good guy.
“I am so sorry, man,” Angelo says as he slides the platter onto the table. Avery’s eyes follow the heavenly-smelling dish and she’s practically drooling. Poor thing was lying. She’s starving. It’s been nearly two hours since I picked her up and I bet she was saving her appetite.
“What’s going on? The bar is a mess.”
Angelo rolls his eyes. “I had two waiters call out on me ten minutes before their shift due to legitimate medical emergencies. My best busboy burnt the shit out of his hand, and my sous chef sliced his hand open on a bottle of merlot. It’s the house of fucking horrors in here tonight. I was actually back there washing dishes myself. I threw on this monkey suit to come apologize to you. Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming tonight?”
He holds out his hand and clasps mine in a brotherly handshake.
“I didn’t want to make a fuss, Lo. I’m simply taking my friend to dinner.”
Angelo gives me an impish smile as he turns his gaze to Avery like a hunter eyeing his prey. I’m not sure what his intentions are with that look on his face, but I’m either about to laugh or knock that stupid smirk right off his face.
His move.
“Where are my manners? Hello…”
Avery sticks her hand out in a hurry. “Avery. Nice to meet you.” She points to the dumplings. “These smell divine. You are the first person to bring me food all evening, meaning you are officially my favorite person in this restaurant.”
Angelo tsks his tongue but doesn’t take his eyes off Avery. “Shame on you, Finn. Starving your date like that. What’s your favorite kind of wine, hermosa? I owe you a bottle for making you wait.”
“Lo,” I gripe, “keep your wine and your compliments and just bring out the rest of our food.”
I know he’s messing with me. He used to do the same thing with Nora whenever I brought her around. A friendly pissing contest. Except when it comes to Avery, I’m not feeling very playful. Just protective. Angelo’s not good enough for her. He’s never going to take the time to appreciate all the layers—her humor, her charm, her elegance, and her flat-out goofiness. He doesn’t realize she has a secret weapon she likes to tuck away. That sweet pussy for starters. Bare, pink, and puffy—all my favorite adjectives for that part of a woman. But Avery plays the part of plain Jane because it’s comfortable for her. She’s trying to hide behind Clark Kent’s glasses. When they come off and she dresses up the way she is tonight, every man can clearly see what they are to her…
Undeserving.
Myself included.
But I’m a hell of a lot closer than Angelo.
Angelo’s laughing at me, enjoying my agitation. “Fine, how about a picture?” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “You both look so nice tonight. I’ll frame it and you can go on the celebrity wall.”
“No!” Avery practically shouts. Angelo and I both jump a little. “I’m sorry, I mean no, thank you. No to the picture, and most definitely no to my face on a wall. Please…just, no, thank you…”
I can feel the hot discomfort coming off her skin, so I reach across the table and ask for her hand. Obediently, she places her hand in mine and I squeeze the tips of her fingers. “Lo, go check on my eggrolls, man.”
“All right, all right. Oh, hey, while I have you, are you still looking to sell your truck? I might have scrambled up the cash. Can I take a look before you leave tonight before I make a final decision?”
I reluctantly pull my gaze away from Avery’s eyes. Her eye makeup accentuates the green perfectly. Natural, yet her lashes look a little darker. Those pretty eyes don’t need any help. They catch my attention all the time on their own.
“I didn’t drive it tonight. We took an Uber.”
“An Uber?” he squawks. He bows his head and shakes it from side to side. “Just sad. I would’ve brought you in a limo, hermosa.” He puckers his lips at Avery and she snickers. I truly can’t tell if she’s enjoying the attention. I certainly am not.
“Bye, Lo. I’d say it was nice seeing you, but honestly, I could take you or leave you right now.”
He laughs heartily as he retreats from the table. “Have a good dinner, you two. Finn, I’ll call you about the truck.”
I give Avery’s fingers one more quick squeeze before I release her hand and point to the dish between us. “These are best while they’re hot.”
She rubs her hands together in glee. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” She grabs her appetizer fork, stabs the smallest dumpling, and dunks it in the bowl of sweet and spicy sauce.
“By the way,” I ask her, twirling my own fork in my hand. “Did you not want your picture taken, or you didn’t want your picture taken with me?”
She screws up her face, taken aback. “Nothing to do with you. I just hate pictures. My face always looks like a balloon. I have no camera charisma. I smile so big my eyes look crooked. I’ve never once taken a good picture.”
“Your headshot on your website is nice.”
She rolls her eyes. “That was my high school senior picture, and I photoshopped the shit out of it.”
“High school?” I ask, incredulous. She simply nods in response. “You are a highly sought-after brand consultant who works with Fortune 500 companies and you haven’t had a legitimate picture taken since high school?”
“What’s your point, Finn? It’s clearly not inhibiting my business,” she mutters.
“My point is, I can help with that. I might know a guy who takes some damn good pictures.” I point to the middle of my chest. “I could take some really nice professional headshots for you. Let me help you.”