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He shrugs. “Okay, thanks for the tip. You can tell me all about it over lunch.”
I wave him away. As in,go away, you little gnat. He does this almost every day, and each time, I send him away. It’s been like this since my wife left, and I took over shuttling Fiona around. He knows I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for the past two years, and he never misses a chance to ply me with food if I’ve skipped a meal.
“I’m not hungry.”
We’re lucky to have two highly-rated restaurants on our property, not to mention that I have a kitchen at my house. It would be hard to plead starvation around here. But day after day, I find myself in the weeds with work, and I generally skip lunch.
“Liar.”
“Asshole.”
“I brought you a sandwich.”
“Thanks.”
He nods. “Just don’t want you fucking up the books. Low blood sugar’ll do that.”
“Hasn’t happened so far, and I skip lunch plenty.”
“Don’t even say it. You’ve been lucky, is all.” He’s not wrong—I shouldn’t be making financial decisions on no sleep and barely any food. And, unfortunately, he’s wrong because I haven’t been lucky, not lucky enough to turn dad’s business losses into gains before anyone’s the wiser.
If I can get through the investor meeting next month without anyone looking too hard at a one-time charge that caused our quarterly profits to plummet, maybe I’ll have a prayer of righting the ship by the end of the next quarter. That is, if I can figure out what my dad was doing that cost us so much money.
My eyes move to the sandwich in Dash’s hand because he hasn’t made any moves toward giving it to me. He sees where I’m looking, puts the sandwich on the desk behind him, and crosses his arms.
“You gonna give me that?” I gesture to the sandwich with a nod.
“Trixie told me you and Dad got into it this morning about financial problems. You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“Not today, I’m not.” Not when I don’t have an explanation that makes sense.
“When, then?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Slowly, he pushes himself away from the desk and walks the wrapped baguette sandwich over to me. He holds it away like a carrot he expects me to jump at and watches me. “Why do you guys all think withholding food is the best way to get me to do something?”
“Because it works.”
“Not today, it doesn’t. I’ll tell you about our finances when there’s something to tell. Until then, go away and let me do my job.”
He holds the sandwich closer. It smells like honey mustard and dill pickles, and my mouth starts watering.
“Fine.” He turns on his heel and leaves my office, sandwich in hand. Seems to be a pattern today—everyone’s got attitude—including my damn stomach, which growls at me for the lost opportunity to eat. But only one person comes to mind whom I wouldn’t mind seeing again, despite the sassy attitude.
I wonder if Ruby is stubborn enough to ignore my advice. Yeah, I kind of hope so.
ChapterSeven
Ruby
There are worse things than spending all day in Napa Valley. My sister has been telling me for years that I was missing out by working and studying so much, and I’m not about to tell her she’s right, but…maybe she’s right.
The day unfolds right out of an Instagram reel of quick cuts advertising the best of the region. Sunny side-up eggs at a roadside breakfast spot where I share a picnic table with a small posse of Harley Davidson aficionados. They spend an hour telling me stories about the cross-country road trip they took that landed them in Northern California. They’re spending a day wine tasting before heading to the coast and driving along the winding highway road above Big Sur on their way to Los Angeles.
I spend my next few hours driving the wine route, popping in and out of wineries but not doing much tasting. I visit two small hotels, hoping to find something in one of their gift shops to replace my ratty shorts and sandals for my afternoon meeting. I don’t want to blow my chances by showing up looking like a babysitter.
The first shop has only bathing suit cover-ups and hats, along with tote bags, tees, and golf shirts emblazoned with the name of the hotel. The second only has mugs, wineglasses, and, oddly, an assortment of flip-flops.
