“Exactly. After the rebrand, they went from the fifteenth most lucrative carrier in the United States to the second…because no one can compete with the American Airlines loyalty program.” Avery shrugs. “Glass ceilings, you know?”
“All that because of a little color switch?”
Avery shrugs with a sweet smile on her face. “It’s a little more complex than that, but yes. Pretty much. That’s the power of brand identity.”
I fight the urge to kiss her right now, in front of this entire restaurant. I like every shade of Avery, but this might be my favorite. She’s so intelligent and confident when she talks business and it’s so refreshing to see a woman so powerful in what I lack.
“So how did you become a brand strategist?” Dad asks, looking as impressed as I am. “Is that a degree?”
Avery takes a small sip through a cocktail straw from the reddish-purple-colored drink in front of her. “Ooh, try that one,” she says, sliding it my way. “Delicious.” She clears her throat and continues. “I actually started my degree in nursing, but I had trouble with science. My grades were lackluster and one day, late in my junior year when I was forcing myself to study in the library, I stumbled upon a seminar. One of the tenured professors from the business school was talking about jobs that would be exploding in the next decade. Her name was Dr. Ruth Donovon. I just loved the way she spoke, with such confidence. She became my mentor and convinced me to switch my degree to business. She taught me everything I know.”
“You switched your major late in your junior year?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.” Avery bobs her head. “I had to do two extra semesters of school, but Dr. Donovon was very convincing. It’s worth noting, the Royalty Airlines story I just told you? She was the brand strategist they hired, who told them to switch their logo to purple. They personally thanked her at their annual executive meeting and credited her vision with their leap of one hundred billion dollars in revenue in their first year after the rebrand.”
“Goddamn,” my dad says with a grunt. “She must’ve been richly rewarded.”
Avery laughs as she picks up her drink once more. “She’s retired in a very nice house in Key Largo. We still talk about once a year.”
“You’re a smart man, Finn,” Dad says, pointing his appetizer fork at me before he stabs one of the cheese-stuffed mushrooms. “You got yourself a working lady. There’s nothing more appealing than a woman who can hold her own in the business world.”
My chest tightens as I take his words in the worst way possible. I wish this defensiveness would go away, but there’s a wall between Dad and me. That wall is called Mom. “There’s also nothing wrong with a woman who stays home to take care of your house, raise your child, and ensure you never have to lift a finger when you’re home.”
“That kind of woman comes with a hefty price tag,” Dad scoffs obnoxiously. “And a lot of lip.” He pops a mushroom into his mouth and chews vigorously. “Oh, these are fantastic. You have to try one, honey.” Dad scoots the plate of appetizers toward Avery. “They’re plump and juicy,” he says before I watch him shoot her a disgustingly flirty wink.
25
Avery
By the time dessert is served, I’m so stuffed I feel like my dress could spontaneously burst. I only sampled everything, but Mr. Griffin ordered so much food that merely tasting all the dishes became equivalent to taking down an entire Thanksgiving dinner. The food was so rich. Delicious, but heavy. Once a year is plenty for this restaurant.
I want to offer to pay for dinner to be polite, but I’m a little worried I can’t afford it. Thanks to my dad’s constant nagging, I tuck most of my money away in high-risk, high-reward mutual bonds. Apparently, I can be daring right now with my money.
But not this daring.
The average cost of an entrée at this restaurant is ninety dollars. Mr. Griffin ordered about eight different dishes, four rounds of drinks, dessert, and a bottle of French champagne—a brand I’ve never heard of before but apparently, it makes Dom Pérignon look like a case of Pabst. This is Finn’s other side. The side he works very hard to keep quiet.
I squeeze Finn’s thigh under the table and he looks my way. The hazy fog in his eyes tells me he’s a touch past tipsy. I tap my clutch. “Should I offer to—”
“What? Pay?” Mr. Harvey interrupts. “Don’t be ridiculous, honey.”
I really thought I was whispering, but apparently not. Our waitress, Penny, approaches the table with perfect timing and Mr. Harvey pulls out a matte black card. “Honey, would you have the kitchen box this up? Son, you guys should take it. It’s rude to the chef to waste it and I wouldn’t dare offend my friend.”
Penny nods and says, “Speaking of which, Chef Roren says your meal is on the house—”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Harvey interrupts and holds up his hands. “No chance. This meal was superb and I am more than happy to support my friend.” He wiggles the card between his fingertips. “Ring this up, tell the Chef the meal was superb, and can you messenger the leftovers to my son’s hotel? Champ, you said you got a room on the Strip somewhere, right?”
Finn blows out an exasperated breath. “It was a surprise, Dad—” He pivots his attention to me. “It was a surprise. I booked a penthouse suite at the Bellagio with a nice view of the fountains. You said you’d never actually stayed on the Strip before, right?”
Finn tells Penny our room number and she retreats from the table with Mr. Harvey’s credit card in hand.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, feeling my cheeks ache from my enormous smile.
“I wanted to. I figured it was a good opportunity. The Bellagio is only a block to our right.”
“Thank you.” I trill my fingers against his hand sweetly as the rest of the restaurant melts away. It’s just me, Finn, and the heavy-eyed, sultry look he’s giving me that says we should just probably fall asleep in each other’s arms tonight.
It’d be the first time.
Of all the things Finn and I have done together, we haven’t crossed that line. I’ve never felt his muscular arms around me when I woke up in the morning. And I’m ready to.
“Adorable,” Mr. Harvey says.
I flinch right before my fist tightens. That stupid word.
“Avery, honey, I am terribly sorry to be rude, but may I have a private word with my son? Just some family affairs I don’t want to bore you with.”
“Dad,” Finn intones, “I’ll just join you at the bar.”
Except it’s crowded with patrons waiting for their seats and most certainly not private. “Don’t be silly,” I say, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “I have to run to the ladies’ room anyway.”
Finn lets me out of the booth and I scour the restaurant for the bathroom. Far back right. I strut gracefully in my sensible heels right into the luxurious bathroom. I don’t understand the bathrooms in these elegant restaurants. They are cleaner and better kept than the dining room itself.
I’m in a stall with my thong around my ankles when I hear a voice I recognize and one I don’t. Our waitress and another woman.