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21
The doorbell rang at 7:00 sharp. When I opened the door of the penthouse, there stood Mr. Templeton in the foyer, flanked by two of Connor’s bodyguards.
Connor’s father was dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit, and carried a bottle of wine in one hand.
Connor stood beside me, his hands in his pockets, his body language aloof. “Dad.”
At least he wasn’t outright hostile.
“Connor,” Mr. Templeton said, then turned his gaze to me. “Lily.”
Connor looked past his father, as though expecting something. “No bodyguards?”
“They’re waiting in the lobby.”
“I’m glad you trust me enough that you don’t think I’ll try to kill you,” Connor said darkly.
“I can call them up here if you’d like to try,” Mr. Templeton retorted, then turned to me. “I brought something.”
He handed the wine to me. It had a label with a black-and-white drawing of a huge manor house and the words ‘1982 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild.’
1982?!
Holy crap.
“Thank you,” I said. “This looks… uh… really nice.”
Connor peered over my shoulder and then smiled acerbically. “Of course. Nothing but the best $9000 bottle of wine for my father.”
Holy CRAP - $9000?!
Still, when you roll with billionaires, that’s the kind of thing they show up with for dinner.
I looked at Connor and mouthed, Be nice. Then I turned back to Mr. Templeton and forced myself to laugh. “This is very nice – thank you. You saved me from serving you Two-Buck Chuck.”
Mr. Templeton’s brow furrowed, like he didn’t understand.
“It’s a cheaper kind of wine… from Trader Joe’s…?”
Still no sign of comprehension.
When it came to pop culture stuff, like father like son.
“Nevermind,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”
