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Chapter Eight
Talia
As we drive toward our destination, I watch out the window. We’re downtown, where most of the buildings are older, but with modern upgrades. The trees planted along the sidewalk are looped with white lights, making me wonder if they were left over from the holidays or if they stay up year-round. I have the same thought as when Robert was shuttling me to the townhouse: Clear Ridge is too nice to be quaint, but too approachable to be considered snobby.
“Why do you live here?” I ask. “Wouldn’t Miami be a better location for a nightclub kingpin?”
His eyes slide to me and then back to the road. What might appear as derision to someone else registers as consideration to me. I’m beginning to know his faces. Funny, I’ve only been around him a few times. Quality over quantity, I think, remembering how we’ve spent our time.
“Midwesterners need fun nights out more than you Florida folk know. You can go out whenever you like. Look around. We’re not exactly taking afternoon strolls this time of year.”
There’s no snow on the ground, but the temperature has dropped significantly since the night sky drew down. I’m about to explain that Florida isn’t all sunshine all the time, but he continues before I can. “I wasn’t supposed to be in the nightclub business forever.”
This sounds like a story. “No?”
He lets loose a soft grunt that might be a laugh. “No. My dad would have preferred it if I built more respectable establishments.” He said those last two words in a rigid baritone, I’m guessing to impersonate his dad.
“Like a spa?”
“My spa will be categorized as nightlife. He won’t like that either.” Pride laces his voice like defying his father brings him joy. I understand his rebellious streak. My father would love if I settled down with a man—any man, it seems—and stayed in my safe, dull job, accepting whatever pittance I’m paid. I guess that’s not entirely fair. He wants good things for me; he just doesn’t believe I can have them without being taken care of by someone else.
Archer turns right, navigating us away from the parking garages of downtown and into an area with more space between the buildings, each with its own designated parking lot.
“What about your mom?” I wonder if she’s as disapproving as his father.
He grins, as big as I’ve seen. It’s a sight I missed terribly, so I stare, soaking it in. “She’s amazing. You’ll love her.”
His smile disappears abruptly. I’m not sure if it’s because he hinted I’d be meeting her and didn’t mean to admit it, or if he misspoke because he didn’t intend to introduce us.
“What about your brothers? What’s Dad think of their chosen sectors of the company?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.
“They can do no wrong.”
“Is that so?” I ask with a chuckle.
He pauses before amending, “That’s what I used to think. They’re adopted, so when I was younger, I suffered from not-enough-ness. My parents didn’t choose me, but handpicked them.”
It’s such a revealing thing to say, I’m not sure how to respond. I know Owen Construction is involved in new builds and upcycles of all sorts. Archer’s oldest brother, Nate, builds live-works. Benji is the white-collar desk jockey in charge of the money. Rumor has it he’s a math wizard.
I saw them in person at the fundraiser. Each of the Owen brothers is attractive in his own unique way. Nate and his crooked nose and bulk, Benji and his suave sophistication, his smile hinting that his own thoughts are amusing him. That feels like too much to share, so, I respond with a generic, “I read they were adopted.”
“Benji was first-in. He’s the egghead. Number cruncher. And then came Nate, the rough-around-the-edges teen from Chicago. He builds live-work facilities, both here and in Chicago.” He points out the window as we pass an enormous open-air shopping center. Even in this cold weather, people in puffy coats are walking from their cars to the brightly lit restaurants and stores.
“You Ohioans are impervious to cold.” I rub my hands together to warm my fingers.
“I’ll buy you some gloves.” He rests one warm hand over both of mine, and again, I feel taken care of, looked after.
My mouth pulls at the corners as I replay Papa’s reaction this morning. Wouldn’t he love to see his oldest daughter being cared for by a billionaire.
“Bottom line,” Archer continues, “Dad approves of Nate and Benji, but rarely approves of me. Nightclubs. Bars. My college girlfriends.” He shrugs, though I imagine it hurts not to receive his father’s approval. “I’ve stopped trying to please him.”
Rather than point that out, I ask, “College girlfriends?”
“Only a few. I stopped bringing them home to meet the parents after a while. Learned my lesson to keep relationships light.”
I learned a similar lesson at a tender, young age.
“What about you?” He slides me a glance. “Before Bonehead Brandon, who’d you bring home?”
