Even with my grievances, I had an easier childhood than Nate.
He’s talking animatedly with his hands about Grand Marin. He’s proud. One glance around the table and I can tell the Owens are proud of him. He’s so alive in this moment. I envy him, and the passion he has for his work. I used to be passionate about my father’s company too. Look what I ended up being a part of.
I’m halfway through my eggs Benedict when Benji turns to me. “Are you coming to the grand opening of Club Nine, Vivian?”
“Um…”
“I haven’t invited her yet, Benji, but thanks,” Nate grumbles.
“I can tell by her hesitation and your deer-in-the-headlights reaction. No pressure,” Benji tells me, and he seems sincere.
“Every time we finish a project there’s a party,” Nate informs me.
“We celebrate often,” Will says. “More work is always around the corner. It’s tempting to move on to the next project without first paying homage to the one you finished.”
“It’s a bad habit,” Lainey says. “You have to be grateful for what you’ve accomplished. Don’t you agree, Vivian?”
I don’t like lying. I rarely do, save fudging my identity for the sake of not becoming the town pariah. I don’t agree. I’m not grateful for the role I played in my former life. How can I be when it led to so many others losing their livelihoods, their savings, their homes? It led to me losing my boyfriend and half my family. The house staff that helped raise me turned on me as easily as they did my father.
Karma, as they say, is a bitch.
“I don’t like to look back.” Hopefully my response is vague enough to be acceptable. Lainey waits for me to expound. I don’t. She doesn’t call me on it, which I appreciate.
“Now that my brother has stolen my thunder,” Nate says, turning in his chair to face me, “you’re invited.”
“Grand opening for VIPs and family only,” Archer supplies.
“Sounds fancy. I have just the shoes for it.” I don’t have to turn my head to feel Nate’s approving smile.
An hour later, we’re in his Tesla when he turns from the restaurant’s parking lot. “You did well in there.”
“No thanks to you. You not only surprised me with your brothers, but you sprang parents on me too.”
“The Owens are—”
“Good guys. I know, I know.” I consider the easy conversation and the way Will listened when his sons spoke. “They’re supportive of you. All of you.”
“They are.”
“They don’t seem to favor Archer, even though he’s their biological son. It must bother him.” It’d have to, wouldn’t it? I was overlooked by my parents for years, for reasons other than adopted siblings, but it’d have to feel similar.
“I’m not going to say Arch didn’t have his share of teenage angst, and God knows I came to that house resisting stability. But, we adjusted. We’ve had a lot of years to learn who we are—all of us. It’s not wrinkle-free, no matter how well-adjusted we seem, but Ben and Arch, and the Owens, have my back.”
“And you have theirs.”
“Yes.”
“I smell white knight syndrome,” I tease.
“I like to think of it as a savior complex. But if you find a dragon you want me to slay, baby, say the word.” His murmured “baby” coils around my heart and squeezes. He takes my hand, resting our linked hands on my leg. Our interwoven fingers are an attractive sight, his thick digits and my narrow, slender ones. His blunt, wide nails and my painted pink ones.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asks.
“Go home. Check on Walt. House chores. The usual weekend things.”
He’s already shaking his head. “That’s no good.”
“Why not?” I ask through a laugh.
“I want you to come home with me. Which is fucked-up, Vivian.” He slants me a look hinting he’s only half kidding. “I like living alone. I like to work. I usually go to a job site on weekends and stay up too late agonizing over details to ensure we’re done on time or early. Then came you.”
He’s too much. I’m flattered. I can’t help it. I’m only human. “And I’m ruining your work ethic?”
“You’re ruining me.”
It’s a touch too honest for the interior of the car. There’s nowhere to escape. The air conditioning blows on my face, chilling the sweat on my brow.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
He stops at a red light and leans toward me. “Look at me.”
With little choice in the confines of the small car, I turn my head.
“It wasn’t a complaint. Kiss me.”
I hesitate. The light turns green. The car behind us honks. He doesn’t move. “Vivian.”
I set my lips to his for a brief kiss, but he cups my jaw and holds me there. The other car swerves around us, the driver yelling as he drives by. Nate lingers another second before taking the wheel.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome,” I say, touching my fingers to my lips to hide my smile. He wears his shamelessly. He really is too much.
Chapter Seventeen
Vivian
It’s been just over two weeks since Walt came to town and I’m feeling the tininess of my apartment big time. I attended two AA meetings with him until he begged me to stop shadowing him. His exact words were, “V. I’ve got this.”
He does seem to have it under control. I used to worry about him incessantly. Since he’s lived in Atlanta, I’ve toned it down some, but now I’m regressing.
In other developments, he’s been job hunting but hasn’t had any luck. I asked Daniel if he could use anyone at the bureau. He wasn’t keen. Walt’s work record is sketchy and rehab doesn’t look good on a resumé.
“I was checking into this nonprofit yesterday,” I call to my brother who’s sacked out on the couch watching TV. I’m watching my toaster oven slowly brown three slices of bread. “They help recovering addicts find work. It might be worth looking into.”
When he doesn’t answer, I peek around the corner. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt, looking tired and worse, bored. Boredom isn’t good for an addict.
“Walt?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
I sigh. I’ve been splitting my time between Nate’s house and here, but this weekend Nate is traveling to Miami with Archer to check out that potential job site. I know it’s juvenile to say I miss him, but…I miss him.
Sigh.
“Breakfast,” I call. “Do you want butter and jam or peanut butter?”
“Butter and jam.”
“Well come and get it.” I force a smile that isn’t completely genuine. I love him, but he’s wearing on me. I never wanted a grown man who behaves like a sulky teenager underfoot. He needs to remember he’s an adult. I’m not his mother—or his maid. The next step in his sobriety should be him taking care of himself.
He slouches into the kitchen and sullenly paints his bread. I slather mine with peanut butter.