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For the first time, the use of my old nickname makes me cringe.
“We need to get something straight first, Tessie Belle.”
Returning to my seat, I curl my fingers and dig my nails into my palm in an effort to keep my face neutral.
Is this to be my new reality?
Drifting back into the confusing realm of this Micah infatuation every two minutes?
It’s beginning to feel like an unproductive way to proceed through life.
In an effort to distract myself, I use the edge of my fork to cut through sugared pastry layers and shovel a triangle wedge of scone into my mouth.
I’m still chewing when I take note of my father’s sudden calculating expression. He’s going to ask me to do something that I won’t enjoy.
“Conner is playing in Miami this weekend,” he says.
I swallow the food in my mouth. “Is he?”
“But I imagine he’ll be back in town next week.”
“Probably.”
An eyebrow lifts. He gets them professionally shaped these days. Can’t be a future Em City mayor with unappealing eyebrows. “I’m sure your schedule already includes sparing some time to show him a few prime listings.”
I’ve made no announcements. But it figures gossip about the biggest pro athlete in town would reach my father’s open ears.
Just this past Wednesday I received a friendly call from Conner Wiseman. He’s interested in buying a house and wants to give me the first crack at the job. It’s a score that any realtor in the metro area would crawl over glass to get. Not only is the commission certain to be substantial, but the prestige of having Conner Wiseman as a client is invaluable. He could take his pick of realtors but he’d rather work with a friend.
I’m touched that Conner would think of me. Over the years we’ve grown into an easygoing sort of friendship. I’ve even traveled with Dani to watch him play before he was traded to the Cyclones.
Conner was quick to add that he understands I’m preoccupied with the campaign right now and he’s glad to wait until after the election. I look forward to it. Truth be told, I far prefer being a realtor to being a campaign director.
“You didn’t mention that you’d heard of Conner’s offer.”
Stuart Ballerini is always pleased by his ability to blindside. “I keep tabs on the industry, Tess.”
I suppress a sigh. “His request was casual. But if he wants to look at some properties next week I’ll see what I can do.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to show him that you’re eager to go above and beyond.”
I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “Conner and I are just friends, Dad.”
“Of course.” He waves a hand. “And if he’s truly a friend, now would be a perfect time for him to make an endorsement choice.”
What a surprise.
More than once he’s pressed me to ask Conner Wiseman to show public support for his campaign. This would be a delicate situation for Conner, considering he plays for the team owned by the rival family.
“Conner has no interest in politics.” I don’t even know if this is true. But I’ll never cross such a line and use a friend in that way.
The shift to chilly disapproval is almost palpable. Instead of wincing under its weight I meet my father’s gaze with a stubborn one of my own.
I’m not wrong here.
As a child, the thought of letting my father down was enough to make my stomach hurt. I’m no longer a child.
He hates to lose. Or maybe he feels sheepish because I’ve already shot down this idea more than once. In any case, he looks away first and begins digging around in the pocket of his blazer.
