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Dad motors on about work ethics, reminding me once again that I shouldn’t ever be late to work, like I was late for meeting him earlier, and then it hits me.Earlierhe and Finn were talking about training. All I have to do is ask my dad about running.
When there’s a pause in the conversation, Liz sets down her fork next to her plate of lettuce, then asks, “And how is your risotto?”
That’s not what the carb hater really means. “It’s great,” I say quickly, then look at my dad. “Hey, how’s your triathlon training going? You’re still running every weekend in the park?”
It’s a bit obvious but maybe not too obvious.
“Great. We have another race coming up in a month,” he says.
“Who’s we?” I ask, acting confused. “Oh, that guy you train with? What’s his name?”
He huffs, clearly frustrated with me for forgetting. “Finn Adams. You’ve met him a few times, Julia.”
Score one for me. I led the witness, and the witness is an attorney. “Right. I think…with his wife?” I ask, scrunching my brow.
Liz shakes her head, cutting in with, “They’re not married anymore.”
Thank god. I breathe freely for the first time since I heard that sexy, raspy voice an hour ago.
“Oh, that’s…” But I don’t addtoo badbecause who really knows? And if I saythat’s good,I might be at the risk of smiling so hard my cheeks crack.
“Yeah, it’s for the best,” my dad says, then zooms right back to the subject of work, peering closely at my sweater. “Are you wearing those sweaters to work?”
“I look professional, Dad,” I say defensively as I fiddle with the pearl buttons.
He eyes the embroidery on the front of the sweater. “A cherry?”
I tug it closed. “I work with creatives.”
“Just make sure you don’t wear sweatpants to work like all the other young people do,” he says.
Seriously? “I don’t wear sweatpants to work,” I say, and he launches into a riff about how people dress today.
Why is a daring, edgy man like Finn friends with my hard-ass dad? My dad’s not fun. He doesn’t screamgood-time buddy. But then, he seemed different in his office when I overheard him talking to Finn. He was relaxed, sarcastic. They needled each other in the way good friends do.
Oh shit.
Does my dad go to those parties too? Are my father and Liz kinky? What if Finn and my father are kink friends? I think I’ll just die right now, because that thought is more terrifying than my father himself, who’s scary on the best of days. A stern, no-nonsense man who has been strict with me ever since he married Liz, who’s strict with herself.
Which means…Finn can’t ever know who I am. He’d never mess around with Tate Marley’s daughter. No one wants to piss off a friend, let alone a friend who’s a former man in blue.
I have less than twenty-four hours to figure out what to do about The Scene.
“Her outfit is nice, Tate,” Liz cuts in, coming to my defense, which rarely happens.
“Thanks, Liz,” I say, appreciative and a little surprised.
“It’s perfectly professional,” she adds, then goes on as an HR executive about office dress codes these days, which is kind of boring, so I return to the drumbeat in my brain.
Of all the men in New York City, why did my father’s best friend have to be the one who lit me on fire? Why did he have to be the one I’m dying to see tomorrow? Why, fucking, why?
I push my risotto around some more, then Liz pauses and shifts gears. “Jules, you’re not eating much?” She’s trying, but she can’t hide the hope in her voice.
She’s tiny and toned and exercises a ton. She never eats dessert, never stays up late, never misses a Pilates class.
I’m curvy with big tits. And yeah, I work out, too, and have the toned arms to prove it. But salad won’t make my boobs or ass smaller.
“I’m not on a diet, Liz. I’m not very hungry,” I say.
