“They work together,” Gigi answers for him, looking at my mom like she’s new here.
“Right,” my mom says. “At Hero & Fitch?”
“It’s Harrow & Finch, Mom,” I say. She’s never gotten the name right. “And no, Luke used to work there. He works for another firm now.”
“Okay, that’s ringing a bell,” my mom says. “I remember you talking about a Luke before.”
Luke turns to me, the corner of his lip pulled up. “You used to talk about me?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re all delusional. Totally crazy.”
“She did. And I met him once at a company party. I remember his shoulders,” Gigi says. “And they still look nice, very sturdy.” She reaches over and pinches his shoulder with her bony hand.
Yeah, this is so fun. I can only think of one other thing that might be even more fun right now, and that would be a root canal.
“Thank you,” Luke says. “I try to work out.”
“I can tell,” Gigi says, nodding appreciatively.
“So you work in PR like Claire,” Ryan says.
“Yeah,” Luke answers. “I do. But she’s much better at it than I am.”
I shake my head, looking toward the sky. He’s such a schmoozer.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Gigi says.
“Wow, thanks, Gigi,” I say, flatly. “Luke is very good at what he does.”
Luke pulls his chin in. “Was that a compliment, Archie?”
Crap.
“No,” I say. “I misspoke.”
He grabs the top of my knee and gives it a little squeeze. The gesture is quick, but the feeling lasts for a while.
The conversation flows while we wait for dinner. Luke has taken off his suit jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, looking relaxed as my family bombards him with questions. Meanwhile, I’ve got sweaty pits while trying to play defense, stepping in to redirect anything that might be too personal.
It’s a lot like my job, actually.
But Luke holds his own, and he does it quite well. Which makes sense . . . since we have the same job.
When all my mom’s many side dishes are on the table, with the steaks my dad made that are surely overcooked, we fill up our plates and dig in.
“This pasta salad is so good, Mrs. Archer,” Luke says.
“You can call me Amanda. And actually, Gigi made that one.”
“You can call me anytime,” Gigi says, patting his hand, and he laughs.
“I might have to if you promise to make me this pasta salad again.”
“Anytime,” she says.
“Okay, Gigi,” I say, letting her know that it’s enough.
“Oh, let an old woman have some fun. The only faces I get to see most days are these fools.”
