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Did someone say my name?
“Savage.” Paisley’s voice draws me from my thoughts.
I glance up. Blue eyes capture mine. God. Damn. Can this night end? I take a sip of merlot. “Sorry. Did I miss something?”
Paige—Mrs. Bachman—smiles. “We were just saying it might be good to go over the itinerary for tomorrow.”
“For the hundredth and one time,” Paisley teases.
Bronson says, “My wife likes to plan. And once she’s done that planning, she likes to review said planning till everyone around her?—”
“Till everyone around me knows exactly what is going to happen and what is expected from them.” Mrs. Bachman gives a good-natured laugh, used to being teased about her over-the-top party and vacation plannings.
“And we love you for it. Without you, Paisley, Thomas, Henry, and I would be sticks in the mud.” Bronson raises his glass. “To my wife. Whose planning efforts lead to the most important events in our life. Family is everything and thanks to my beautiful Paige, we’ve created amazing memories to share with one another.”
We all raise our glasses, joining him. I say, “To Mrs. Bachman.”
One by one we clink glasses with everyone at the table, making eye contact each time, as per the inveterate Bachman manner guide we all live by. I’m surprised to find Mrs. Bachman dabbing at tears as our glasses clink.
Is she a romantic? It was a nice speech. Or emotional about her daughter leaving this family?
It’s time for Paisley and me to clink glasses. I keep our eye contact short. Appropriate. Maybe even shorter than appropriate. Then I go back to my lettuce, moving it around the plate while I memorize any necessary information about the itinerary.
“Tomorrow, we have our mother-daughter special outing and brunch in the city. Paolo, you’ll be in attendance but in order to pretend we’re a normal mother and daughter on an outing we’d like to ask that the rest of the security detail keep their distance.” Mrs. Bachman is known for being as exasperated by her bodyguards as her daughter.
“Absolutely,” I say, giving her a nod.
I make a mental note to make sure my men stay put where I post them and don’t fall prey to the charms of Mrs. Bachman. I’ve heard stories from when she was younger and the ways she would try to get security to give her and her friends more space. Most likely to drink too much and get into clubs that weren’t pre-approved, or for pancakes at late-night diners, places they shouldn’t be.
Mrs. Bachman says, “Then Kate’s going to be off! Onto the private jet and away for two weeks of adventures.”
Paisley gives a tight smile.
Thomas says, “You’re such a homebody, Paise. What brought on this trip anyway? I would’ve thought you’d get straight to work and go to Italy. What’s with the detours?”
Mrs. Bachman answers for Paisley. “Every young woman should do some solo traveling before settling down.”
“You didn’t,” Thomas says to his mom.
“Exactly.” She reaches over to touch Bronson’s hand. “And I wouldn’t change a thing. But times are different and young ladies need to travel, get to know themselves, before they have real responsibilities.”
I glance at Paisley. She looks indifferent. She lifts her wineglass to her lips. “It’ll be fine, Thomas.” She looks from Thomas to Henry. “Are you guys going to miss me?”
“Am I going to miss my sister getting more three-pointers than me in front of my friends?” Henry asks. “No.”
The table laughs.
Thomas chimes in. “Am I going to miss your hair ties and random socks and all your messy makeup all over my bathroom counter? No.”
“You have better lighting and your mirror is bigger.” Paisley takes a big sip of her wine.
“But I will miss our late-night chats.” Thomas says. “And you falling asleep in my bed. Snoring. So I have to sleep on the floor.”
Paisley says, “I don’t snore!”
“Like a bear,” Thomas teases.
Henry rubs his forehead. “A rabid bear foaming at the mouth.”
