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"You have a brother?"
I hesitate. "He’s my fraternal twin, but you know that already."
Now, it’s his turn to hesitate. "I do, but it’s different hearing it from you than reading it in a folder."
I reach for my flute and take another sip. "My grandfather arrived from the Indian subcontinent when he was five years old. He met my grandmother, who’s also Indian, here in the UK. My father was born here. My mother’s English. She met my father at the grocery shop that his father established. It’s the same place that she and my father now run. When my parents had us, they were determined we would make a mark."
"And both of you have."
I glance away, then back at him. "They weren’t very happy when, after qualifying for the bar, I moved into this 'ungodly' profession." I make air quotes with my fingers.
"Parents normally come around when they see their children are happy."
"Oh, and let’s not forget, I’m past my prime and not married. So, I’ve doubly failed them."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-nine, but you know that—"
"Already, yes, but can we pretend I don’t, for the purposes of this conversation?"
"A little tough, considering, as your PR manager, I have access to the most intimate details of your life."
His lips quirk. "Not all of them."
"No?"
"No." He taps his temple "Not the ones I carry here or" — he taps the place over his heart— "here."
I blink, then glance away.
He blows out a breath. "I didn’t mean to say that. But when I’m with you, it seems, I can’t stop myself."
"Well try harder, Hunter. You seem to forget, it’s both of our careers on the line."
"And I promise, it’ll be game-face out there."
I throw back the rest of the champagne, then place the glass back on the table.
"So your brother’s going to be at this family reunion?"
"He will be, and he’s the darling of my parents. As you know, he plays cricket for England. He’s famous, and in their eyes, a success. And of course, they don’t care that he’s not married or doesn’t have kids. It’s the daughter who always bears the brunt of that particular line of thinking."
"I’m sure you’ll persuade your parents otherwise."
"Oh, when I’m with them… All these PR skills? They go out the window. I seem to go back to being five and I’m unable to do much but listen to them rant." I begin to flick my hair over my shoulder, then remember I’ve put it up for the evening. I settle for locking my fingers together and looking out the window.
"It’s because they care about you," he murmurs.
"You don’t say."
"They seem like they were very hands-on parents."
"Too hands-on, when they were around. They were always trying to make up for the fact that they couldn’t be there at all times since they were running the store." I snort.
"I’d have liked mine to be more hands-on."
I shoot him a sideways glance. He’s looking into the depths of his champagne flute, a furrow on that perfect forehead.
