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“Hi Dylan. I’m Stevie.”
Dylan quirked an eyebrow at me, curious.
“Is that short for something? Seems strange to have as a first name,” he replied.
I wrinkled my nose and resisted the urge to stick out my tongue. “Stephanie.”
Dylan nodded sagely.
“Well, enjoy your drink, Stevie.”
He turned away, but before my brain could catch up, my mouth was speaking.
“Do you know Aaron Christophers?”
I was curious to see how far my father’s reach was.
Dylan shook his head.
“Afraid I don’t,” he said. “Sorry.”
I just let out a “hmm” and let him continue with his work. I expected to sit there and continue to steep in my resentment of my father, but the man on the stool next to me swiveled away from the television, until we were eye to eye.
Later, I’d try and remember exactly what those eyes looked like, I’d try to recall their deep intensity, and the almost irritated way he stared me down, my father’s name in his mouth. However, through the haze of alcohol and the abruptness with which he started speaking, I was sidetracked long enough to miss the first part of what he was saying, let alone what his eyes looked like.
“I’m sorry?” I muttered, shaking myself back to reality.
“I just asked how you know Aaron Christophers,” the man said.
There was a small quirk in the corner of his mouth, something cheeky that threatened to appear at any moment. I wondered what made him think he had any right to look at me that way, like I was a source of infinite amusement.
“From years ago,” I said dryly. “He knew my mother.”
So, it wasn’t a complete lie. Hedidknow my mother. In another lifetime. Right before he knocked her up and ruined her career. Everything after was dust under the carpet that he hadn’t been willing to acknowledge.
Iwas dust under the carpet.
“Ah, yes. I know him through family too—my father plays golf with him.”
I got the impression the man was holding something back, but so was I. I couldn’t blame him. Unless you were one of the lucky few that circulated within my father’s most trusted social circle, then you were likely someone that had suffered from his cold personality and superiority complex.
“You’re not fond of him,” I stated.
“Is anyone?” he quipped.
It had taken me years to realize that aside from his patients, my father only cared about the people that could preserve or better his own reputation.
The man beside me shook his head, like he was clearing it of the irritation that was Dr. Aaron Christophers. He smiled genuinely, and it was concerning how quickly he could turn from brooding to cheeky.
“Let’s discuss something else. How did you find your way to Sweet Nell’s?”
“I wandered here, just getting to know the area.”
“Oh?” He pressed. “So, you just moved here? For what?”
“Work,” I said.
I didn’t want him to know too much about me—he already knew I had some affiliation with Dr. Christophers.
