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Cris dismisses the Owen brothers collectively with a wave. “Don’t listen to any of them. They’re out of touch.”
“Hey!” Vivian pouts. “I’m not out of touch.”
Cris lifts the edge of Viv’s shirt and mutters a designer name I’ve heard on fashion reality shows. Viv curls her lip but gives up and laughs shortly after.
“Champagne, Talia?” Nate asks. “Since Archer’s not going to offer, thought I’d better.”
“Fuck off,” Archer growls.
“Be right back.” Nate chuckles, as if the F-off isn’t unusual for them. Before we can launch into more conversation, an older couple strolls into the room.
“I see we have a guest,” the woman announces. She’s dressed in a little black dress, the skirt knee-length, the fit tailored to her lithe form. Her heeled shoes aren’t as high as Vivian’s, but whose are?
“Lainey Owen.” Archer’s mother approaches with her arm outstretched. I take her hand and shake. Like the man behind her, her hair is dark, and her skin is olive-toned. Italian heritage, I’d bet. Though there could be a touch of Greek in there, like on my father’s side. My mom’s side is Mexican.
“This is my husband, William.”
Archer’s hand flinches at my waist, a subtle reaction, but I notice.
“Talia Richards, is it?” William’s green eyes match Archer’s. His suit and tie are a touch formal, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he dresses this way most, if not all, of the time.
“Lovely to meet you.” I shake his hand. Archer inches closer, a wall of protection at my left side. So far, I’m not picking up any vibes other than polite ones from his parents.
“You’re helping with the spa, I hear,” William says. So he does know about the project. I wondered.
“Some of the finer points of design and aesthetics.”
“Interior design,” he guesses incorrectly.
“Not specifically. My position is hand-crafted.”
“Like mine,” Cris chirps, standing on my other side and beaming up at Will. I didn’t notice he was looking at me with intensity until I witness his face smoothing when he turns his adoring gaze to Cris.
“Benji made up my title, though I’ve refined it through years and years of careful observation,” Cris tells me.
“Well, at least one of you is observant,” Nate, king of one-liners, quips as he hands me a glass of champagne. “Cigars tonight, Will?”
“Absolutely. If the ladies allow.”
“Because we have so much say.” Lainey rolls her eyes. Nate offers to pour her a flute of champagne. She shoos him off, saying she’ll pour it herself. Once everyone has a cocktail in hand, the men split off to one side of the room and the ladies to the other. Small talk ensues, but it mostly revolves around where I’m from, my family, and how I came to know Archer. I was unsure how much to share. Vivian picks up on my hesitation and fills in the gap beautifully.
“She was at the Heart-to-Teen fundraiser last spring. In Florida.”
“It’s a wonderful charity. Do you have a connection with adoption, Talia?” Lainey asks.
“I had an interest in Archer,” I say, opting to tell the truth instead of fabricating a story I’d likely forget the details of later. “He helped me with a grand opening of a spa in Miami for the company I used to work for. He’s incredibly talented.”
I feel Archer’s gaze on the side of my head and peek over my shoulder to smile at him. His lips soften, letting me know he both overheard and appreciated my seal of approval. It’s so interesting to see him like this. He’s never been anything less than confident and self-assured with me at home. In his parents’ home, his tension is like an uninvited guest in the room.
Dinner is far from catered lasagna. A waitstaff of two serves mussels in white wine sauce and triangle toast points with caviar to start us off. The waitstaff is informal, but Lainey doesn’t ignore them in cliché rich-folk fashion. She asks them about their families and thanks them when they deliver her plate. Spring mix salad with goat cheese and sundried tomatoes comes next, and for dinner we are given a choice: lamb chop lollipops, pineapple glazed chicken thighs, or filet mignon.
I chose the lamb chops. Though they are delicious, Calista’s are better, but I keep that observation to myself. During dinner, Archer mentions my sister is a chef, and the conversation runs on that bit of steam for a while. William asks about her restaurant, and I tell him she doesn’t have her own yet.
“She should. She could franchise later. Have a line of sauces and condiments packaged for sale in markets all over the country.”
“William,” Lainey scolds. “No business talk at the table.”
Benji singsongs the word “busted” under his breath, and Nate piles on, warning William he “knows better.” Archer, I notice, is resolutely quiet during the exchange, even though Will takes the teasing from his other two sons easily.
