“Be the bigger man,” I grind out through gritted teeth, reminding him of our conversation.
“How’s Fiona?” he asks, prying my hand off his thigh. Oops. Guess I dug in deeper than I thought.
“She’s fine. Sends her regards from the Hamptons.” Vincent’s drink arrives, and he takes it from the still giddy waitress with a flirtatious wink that makes her blush and me squirm.
Connor runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “She didn’t come with you? I’m surprised she didn’t jump at the chance to spend some of your money on Fifth Avenue.”
“Bigger man,” I grumble again.
But Vincent only shrugs. He’s either completely clueless or so self-absorbed that insults bounce off him like rubber bullets.
“She stayed at the cottage. She had a tennis tournament or a garden club meeting or some other event she couldn’t bear to miss.”
Cottage, my ass. I’ll bet my entire life savings—meager as it is, it’s a lot to me—that what he calls a cottage is bigger than the White House.
“So, what should we order?” I ask, opening my menu. “I hear the huevos con chorizo is out of this world.”
It’s a cheap diversionary tactic, but it’s the best I can come up with on the spot. Anything to cut down on the obvious father-son tension. Well, obvious to me. And Connor. Like I said, I think Vincent is oblivious.
It works for a while. We settle on an array of brunch and lunch dishes to share. The waitress comes back to take our order—cue another round of uncomfortable flirting—and then she’s gone and the tension creeps back in.
“How often do you get into the city, Mr. Dow?”
“Why the hell did you ask to meet me today, Dad?”
Connor and I speak at the same time, but his father ignores both of our questions, opting for one of his own.
“I didn’t know Connor was seeing anyone. How long have you two been dating?”
“We’re not—”
“A few months,” Connor blurts, cutting me off. “Which you’d know if you cared enough to be a real part of my life.”
His arm tightens around my shoulders. If it wasn’t possessive before, it is now. He gives me a side-eyed look that silently begs me to go along with him.
I squeeze his leg under the table to let him know that whatever he needs, I’m game. I came here to support him, and that’s what I’m going to do. Even if I don’t fully understand how pretending we’re more than friends with benefits is going to improve his relationship with his father.
I move my hand from his thigh to his forearm, resting on the table. An open and obvious display of affection. “We’re not really advertising it. But yes, we’re together.”
Connor punctuates my statement by leaning in and kissing me. It starts firm and forceful, like an exclamation point, but morphs into more of a semi-colon, softer and sweeter, hinting of something yet to come.
As the kiss shifts, so does the world around me. Suddenly, the pretending feels all too real. Like there’s actually a chance this undefined thing we’re doing can evolve and grow into an actual, honest-to-goodness relationship.
A discrete cough forces Connor to lift his head. At first, I assume it came from his father, but the waitress is there with the first of our tapas plates, so it could have been her. Either way, whatever spell I’m under is broken. She sets the dishes down, promising to return with the rest of our order and a fresh round of drinks.
Goodie. More alcohol. I can’t decide if that’s going to help or hurt.
Connor spoons some pan con tomato con jamón onto his plate—bread rubbed with tomato, garlic and olive oil, topped with Serrano ham, Manchego cheese and olives—then passes it to me so I can do the same. “Now that we’ve nailed down my relationship status, maybe you can tell me what we’re doing here. I believe you mentioned something about finding a box of Mom’s stuff.”
“It’s right here.”
Vincent picks up a plastic container about the size of a shoebox from the seat next to him and hands it across the table to Connor. Did he have that when he came in? Obviously, he must have. But I swear, I didn’t see it. Probably because I was too focused on how much he looks like his son.
Connor runs a hand over the top of the box, like he’s thinking about cracking it open, then sets it down on the bench seat between us. “I’ve got to admit, I’m surprised. I assumed the whole box-from-mom thing was a bullshit excuse you used to lure me here.”
Vincent pushes his glasses up his nose. Something else he has in common with his son, although Vincent wears thin, gold wire rims where Connor’s frames are dark and heavy. “Well, there is something I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Called it.” The waitress drops off our drinks, and Connor immediately knocks back a good third of his Bloody Mary. “Let me guess. You and Fiona are getting divorced and you’re moving on to wife number—what is it? Four? Five?”
