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Maddy gives me a knowing look, and I can tell she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I’m not saying don’t do it,” she says softly. “I’m just saying, be careful.”
She pats my leg as she shoves to her feet. “I’m heading to the shower.
I watch her walk away, pondering that she never answered my question about who she was with last night.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
BLAKE
“Oh, this place is … rather nice.”Amanda stands at the entrance to Bistro Pierre. Her mouth draws into a straight line while she takes in the grand structure of towering columns and arched windows, with a lavish red carpet leading up to the entrance.
Shit. I need to remember places like this aren’t her norm. When I booked the reservation for our first official date, I only wanted to treat her to something nice because she deserves the best. It never crossed my mind that my lifestyle might intimidate her.
“It’s definitely a step up from cafeteria food,” I say, trying to inject humor into the situation.
She glances down at her simple yellow sundress and bites her lip. It’s her tell that she’s uneasy.
I pull her into me and nuzzle my lips against her ear. “You look gorgeous.”
“I could’ve worn something different. Something not so bright.” And to prove her point, a woman dressed in a navy blue, chiffon evening dress steps around us. How could a hockey player know anything about fabrics, you ask? As heir to a textile empire, I’ve been taught about different textiles since birth.
“You were made to shine, Princess.” I kiss the top of her head and guide her to the doors.
Once inside, soft classical music plays in the background as I give my name to the hostess. Amanda’s grip tightens on my arm as her eyes wander around the opulent surroundings.
“It’ll be just a minute, Mr. Morton,” the hostess says.
“Relax, I’m right here with you,” I tell Amanda, thinking maybe taking her here was a mistake. I should’ve told her what to wear, at least. Fuck. This is the first date I’ve had in years, and I’m fucking it up before it starts.
“Blake, darling!” Mom’s voice pulls our attention to her and Dad. They look like they’ve just stepped out of a country club brochure. Jesus. No wonder Amanda is intimidated.
“Mom, Dad. What are you two doing here?”
“What a silly question. We came here to eat.” Mom’s pearls clatter lightly as she wraps me in an embrace that feels more like a performance than affection. Her gaze shifts, landing on Amanda next to me, curiosity lighting up her eyes like the flash of a camera. “And Amanda, dear, how nice to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you as well.” Amanda smiles warmly at Mom and shifts to Dad. “And you, too, Mr. Morton.”
Dad nods and then turns to me. “You haven’t come into the office since our discussion.”
My back straightens, jaw clenching. “That’s because I go to school during the day and have practice in the afternoons.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.”
I don’t get his sudden need for me to learn the business. I get he wants to travel, but he’s only fifty-four, far from retirement age. Plenty of time left for me to play hockey and learn the ropes. But guilt for not helping out niggles at my insides as I take in his tired appearance and pale complexion. It must be another period of long hours at work, a habit he falls into when business picks up. But I don’t understand why he works so hard. He has more money than he could ever need. Why not delegate tasks to his employees and take some time off? He clearly needs the rest more than anything else.
“I know, Dad. I’ll carve out some time, but I also need to study at some point.”
“Amanda, dear. Tell me, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?” Mom asks.
Amanda’s eyes dart towards me, the green depths swirling with a cocktail of anticipation and nerves. She opens her mouth, but I cut in before the words escape.
“We’re heading to Boston, actually.” My words are quick, a shield thrown up to deflect further interrogation. “A little getaway.”
“Ah, Boston,” Mom nods, her expression painting the picture of approval while her mind is probably already flipping through a mental calendar, scheduling our next family appearance. “Speaking of getaways, the Gala next month is quite the event. I’m excited to see your dress. Who’s the designer?”
I feel Amanda stiffen beside me, her fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt. She glances at my mom, a hesitant smile playing on her lips.
“Actually, I’m still looking for the perfect one.” Her eyes flicker to me, searching for backup, but I can only offer a supportive nod.
