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“Seriously? You’re basically forcing Cameron to let me tag along on his big deal like some pitiful puppy no one wants.”
“Woof, woof.” Cameron’s sound effects are not needed, and I shoot him a warning glance that he thankfully accepts.
“If you don’t have anything going on, help Cameron.” Dad’s declaration is final, or at least in his mind, it is.
“And if I have something going on?” I challenge. I’m playing with fire because I don’t want to spill my guts about the possibility of the Cartwright deal, not yet, but I can’t work with Cameron and give Elena the time she deserves.
Cameron clears his throat, but it doesn’t cover his scoff and I glare at him openly now. Shut the fuck up, Cam.
“Yeah, Gracie said you had something going on.” He backhands my arm like we’re frat bros, which we definitely are not. “By the way, next time she’s hanging out with you, could you not take her to your latest’s house for an overnight? All I heard was Elena-this and Elena-that. If Gracie doesn’t know about my dating life, I definitely don’t need her knowing about yours.”
Shit, there’s a lot to unpack there, but I start with . . .
“Your dating life? I thought you’d taken a vow of celibacy.”
It’s borderline and I know it, but it’s been a long time since the accident that took Cameron’s wife, and to be honest, even though we argue and compete with one another, I worry about him. He buries himself in work, not because he loves it but because it’s a distraction from the loss I’m sure he still feels acutely. As an unspoken rule, we don’t discuss the accident, never mention his wife’s name, or note that Grace is the spitting image of the mother she doesn’t remember. His mentioning a dating life, even as a joke, is . . . progress? At least in a twisted way.
“Yeah, well, if I’m celibate, at least you know I’ll never fuck you over. Can’t say the same for you.”
“Who’s Elena? Someone we should meet?” Dad asks, skipping over the brotherly shit-stirring. He’s always worried about who we date and spend time with, wanting to make sure they’re ‘worthy’ of a Harrington, and in some cases, that no one leads us astray. I think he fell down on that gig by the time Kyle came around, but for the rest of us, it was a constant Q-and-A about anyone we mentioned. Which is why we don’t mention anyone we date to family, especially our parents. Mom would have the wedding half-planned before the introduction was over and Dad would be running a Pentagon-level background check.
“Maybe, but not like you’re thinking,” I venture carefully, not wanting to say too much, too soon.
“She must be something real special for you to not bail on the overnight after Kyle saddled you with a tagalong. Sorry about that, by the way. Grace said y’all did some sort of museum visit to look at boring paintings, the pancakes were yummy, and that she got to pet a horse?”
“Again, yes . . . but not like you’re thinking.” He’s fishing for information that I don’t want to share, but not answering is like chumming already-shark-infested waters. Because Cameron is definitely a shark, but Dad is the head shark of us all.
“Elena who?” Dad asks, suddenly intrigued.
“Thanks,” I mutter to Cameron. I could say that Elena is someone I’m casually seeing. Lying is becoming my SOP when the situation warrants it. But I don’t.
“Elena Cartwright. Strictly professional, I assure you.”
Dad’s eyes narrow, and if his head were transparent, I think I’d see a tiny elf erratically flipping through file cabinets, looking for an encyclopedia entry on the name Elena Cartwright.
And I see the moment the elf finds the correct file when Dad’s eyes widen and the proverbial lightbulb over his head lights up. “What in the Sam-hill are you doing with Elena Cartwright?”
“When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you. Until then, I’ve got it handled.” I try to sound confident, maybe even arrogant. Dad respects both. Cameron respects neither, at least not in others.
“You had dinner with the matriarch of one of the wealthiest families in the state, and now you’re holding out on us. Spill your guts or I’ll spill them for you.” He makes a slicing motion across his waist, as though he would have the courage to attack me physically. We both know his daggers are verbal.
“I’ve got it handled,” I repeat.
“Look, I’ve heard of Elena, so I know what she’s capable of. Why are you talking to her?” Dad asks again. Except it’s not a question this time.
I don’t want to say. I’ve already said too much, and if I spill any more, there’s no way I’m going to be left alone to handle this. But Dad isn’t the type you tell no. Especially about business.
