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Mr. Garwood sat, predictably, at the end of the table with his wife at the other, while the other guests continued to find their seats. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared, dressed in a penguin suit, rattling off the seven-course meal they were about to experience. Wine glasses and champagne flutes were topped as the people around him oohed and ahhed, and soon the first course was brought out.
Blake smothered his grimace as the waiter announced the dish—cold-smoked oyster on the half shell with peppercorn granita.
His gaze flickered to Mr. Garwood. He wore a shrewd smile as he watched the white-gloved waiters serve everyone their dishes, scrupulously ignoring Blake’s gaze. Maybe it was silly, but Blake couldn’t help but feel like the first course was chosen with a very deliberate purpose.
As he stared down at his tiny plate, it brought him back to that first dinner with Jen and her parents. The one where Mr. Garwood ordered oysters, despite Blake’s polite protest, then insisted he try them until Blake finally caved. Blake almost got sick at the table and spent the next thirty minutes in the bathroom dry-heaving. Much to his dismay, Mr. Garwood thought it was hilarious.
Blake reached for his oyster and held it between his thumb and index finger. He hated oysters. He may as well eat a giant, slimy booger. How’s that for sophisticated? Regardless, he tried to muster the courage to swallow it down so as not to draw attention to himself, when Jen’s hand curled around his wrist.
He glanced over at her, and she smiled, then leaned into him, whispering, “You don’t have to eat it.”
Gratitude washed through him. She knew him, accepted him just the way he was, and that was enough to have him placing it back on the plate. A moment later, Mr. Garwood, having expected Blake to suck it up and eat the oyster, glanced over at him. His eyes sparkled with amusement or something darker, Blake wasn’t sure. “Something wrong, Blake?”
“No, sir,” Blake said. He didn’t need to offer him an explanation, especially when the man knew darn well what was wrong.
“Blake doesn’t like oysters, Daddy. Remember?” Jen smiled at him, seemingly oblivious to the fact her father most definitely remembered.
Blake fought the flicker of irritation that she felt the need to provide an explanation for him like he was a child.
“Ah, well. I’m sure they have something a little simpler on the menu yet. Although, I don’t think they’ll have boxed mac and cheese.” He snickered, and Blake felt his face grow hot.
Then Mr. Garwood turned to the man next to him, Robert Frietz. He owned the largest ketchup company in America. “Blake, here, has simpler tastes. But who could blame him? When you grow up on Ramen and fries, it’s an adjustment trying to refine your palate. But we’ve slowly been breaking you in, haven’t we, Blake?”
Frietz chortled, and Mr. Garwood’s smile spread like a snake.
Blake offered him an unaffected smile, though laced with tension. “Yes, you have. You’ve been extremely kind in introducing me to your much more refined culinary tastes.”
Blake happened to
know darn well one of Mr. Garwood’s favorite binge foods was fast food cheeseburgers. His driver once told Blake he hid the McDonalds wrappers in the backseat for him to dispose of.
The woman next to Blake turned and smiled. “Who doesn’t love a good cheeseburger?” Then she tipped her oyster shell back and downed the slippery chunk of flesh with a wet slurp.
Blake’s stomach squeezed, but his nausea gave way to the fact Frietz had turned his attention on him.
“So, Blake, I hear you and Jen are getting pretty serious.”
“Yes, we are.” Blake glanced over at Jen and squeezed her hand, to which she blushed and offered him one of her gorgeous smiles, and his earlier irritation vanished. This was why he endured her father.
“And what is it you do for a living?” he asked.
There it was. The question that came up at every party—the one that always left Blake feeling the need to defend himself, like it was shameful to succeed at starting your own business and work your way from the bottom up. Absurd. The guy on the end of the table made ketchup for heaven’s sake. Was that really more glamorous than custom bikes? Or was it simply the fact his family had been doing it for generations that set them apart? Well, that and billions of dollars, but who was counting?
“I own and run my own custom motorcycle shop, actually,” Blake said, looking the man square in the eye. He wouldn’t back down from these questions, nor would he feel ashamed of what he did. So he owned a bike shop and got his hands dirty for a living? He was successful, happy, and proud of everything he’d accomplished. If Blake wanted, he’d never need to touch a wrench again and sit behind a desk, handling only logistics and the company’s monetary transactions while supervising. But passion drove him. He opened his business because he loved it, and hoped to turn his passion to profit.
“Wow.” Frietz raised his brows in surprise. “How’s business?”
Ah, the wealthy’s discreet way of gauging what his net worth was. “Business has never been better, actually. I started the company when I was nineteen, and every year, we’ve doubled our profits.”
“Good for you,” the man said as a waiter placed the next course in front of them.
“Watercress chestnut soup,” the waiter announced, just as Blake’s own bowl appeared.
Haven’t they ever heard of chicken noodle? The rich even make soup pretentious.
“And what about your parents?” Frietz asked. “What do they do?”
In other words, does he know them? Because if he doesn’t, they’re nothing and no one.
