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But he didn’t. He didn’t at all.
“Trent.” I leaned forward. “Your son probably makes half a million dollars a year posting on social media.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized it wasn’t my place to say them. For all I knew, Reagan was purposely keeping his parents in the dark. But Christ, it felt like Trent was determined to hang on to the false narrative where his son was an incapable, dependent slacker, and I needed him to see how wrong he was.
He barked out a laugh. “If that were true, Thatcher, why would he bother working for you?”
Because he wants his parents to take him seriously, you idiot. Because part of him believes he can’t take himself seriously unless he has a traditional job.
But I didn’t say that out loud. We were expected at the dinner table in less than ten minutes. It wouldn’t do to start a fight with my host, especially when he might start to wonder why I was so passionate about defending his child.
A moment later, Trent set his glass down and gave me a campaign smile—wry, friendly, and insincere. “Have to say, I really hope you’re right and that he’s started thinking about things more seriously. Once we’re in the governor’s mansion, the boy’s not going to be any use to me at all, and you’d better believe I’ll be a whole lot less likely to keep paying his way. Time he stood on his own two feet.” He nodded to himself. Then, he added with no trace of irony, “But Patricia and I appreciate you giving him time off to help the family out.”
I stepped closer and reached out to slam my crystal glass on the table between us when I was interrupted by a soft knock and the creak of a door opening behind me.
“Dad? Mother would like you to come immediately and lead us in to dinner. I think—oh.” Reagan paused when he saw me, then flushed from his carefully styled hairline to the collar of his shirt. He straightened. “Sorry to interrupt. Bunty Lamb has been telling Layla how beneficial climate change will be for Bunty’s tan lines, and while Flynn has been holding back admirably from correcting her, he’s turning an unhealthy purplish sort of color. JT flat-out refused to ‘control your boyfriend if you absolutely must have him here, Jonathan’ and threatened to leave if Mother said a single critical word. I think she hopes that getting everyone in their assigned seats will prevent Firecracker from… well, exploding.”
Trent stood and moved around the desk toward the door. “She’s right, no doubt. I don’t know why people get so upset over trivialities when we’re having a nice dinner.”
“Yes, it’s in extremely poor taste to worry about the fate of the planet when Rosalia’s made pavlova for dessert,” Reagan agreed blandly.
Trent nodded. “Well, let’s go, then. Oh.” He paused and clapped Reagan on the shoulder. “Mr. Pennington was just telling me he has no complaints about your job performance thus far. Keep up the good work.”
Reagan’s ears turned red, and his jaw tightened. “Yes, sir. I’d hate for Mr. Pennington to be dissatisfied.”
I sucked in a slow, silent breath. I needed to say something, to correct Trent’s statement, but I couldn’t. Emotions bubbled just beneath my skin—anger from my conversation with Trent, annoyance from Reagan avoiding me, hurt from our pointless argument last night, helpless frustration from every fucking minute of the last two days when I hadn’t been able to take care of Reagan with my hands and mouth and cock—and if I said a single word, all of it might erupt like a volcano. Instead, I silently willed Reagan to look up, to let me reassure him without words.
He turned on his heel and walked out after his father, never lifting his eyes from the ground.
The scotch in my stomach turned sour as I followed.
The meal was two hours of eye-opening performances, not only by the politicians in the room but also by Reagan himself. There was no hint of hurt or anger in his polite demeanor. He was all cheer and charm, easy flirtation and eager attention. He said nothing of interest but nodded intently when spoken to. His smile never faltered.
I hated every minute of it.
This was the Reagan I’d known for years. The Reagan I’d thought I’d known. Handsome but shallow. Courteous but aimless. Adorably sexy but hopelessly immature.
If I hadn’t spent the last week cataloging his expressions, listening to his thoughts on a variety of subjects, and obsessively replaying them in my head every damn night, I might still believe his act was genuine. But the Reagan I’d come to know was opinionated, and snarky, and endlessly interesting. His charm and flirtatiousness were warm and friendly—a way to make connections rather than a defense mechanism. My Reagan’s smile lived in his beautiful eyes.
Worse than seeing him retreat behind his polite facade was that I could see now how much it cost him to maintain it. His cardboard smile was limited to the lower half of his face while those aquamarine eyes that lived hook-deep in my soul remained shuttered.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to ball the pristinely pressed tablecloth into tight fists and yank with all my might, sending crystal and china crashing to the floor. I wanted to wrap Reagan up in my arms and carry him from the room like some movie hero while the music swelled and the credits rolled.
And then what? What the hell could I offer Reagan that was better than what he had now? A romance built on secrecy and half-truths with a man who’d managed to drive away his own son, his two ex-wives, and most of his friends?
So I stayed calm and silent… and watchful.
“Patricia tells me you’re a friend of the family,” the white-haired woman on my right said, leaning close enough to waft expensive perfume my way. “Are you here for the festival?”
“In part. There’s also a small investment summit in town where I’m making an appearance since I invested in a local business last summer.” I shrugged. “Reagan suggested it, and there’s a reason why he’s handling the entire social media arm of my company. He’s absolutely brilliant.”
“Reagan works for you?” Her face lit up. “How lovely. I know he’s been doing campaign appearances for Trent, and I must admit…” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I had some concerns.”
I paused with my wineglass halfway to my lips, then set it down. “Really.”
“Mmm. It’s not healthy to keep your adult children dependent the way they have with Reagan. An article in the Times a few years ago suggested that seeing your children as problematic and flawed could be a destructive, self-fulfilling prophesy because you end up catering to that narrative rather than trusting them to find their own solutions to problems. That’s precisely what Trent and Patricia have done. I’m not sure they realize it.”
I glanced over at Reagan and caught him staring at me. As soon as he saw me glance in his direction, he turned away and nodded at whatever his mother was saying, fake smile firmly in place. My chest tightened. “Yes,” I murmured. “I… I see your point.”
