He pulls on the back of his neck with both hands. Guilty is written all over him. “Doesn’t everyone know her?” he asks.
I reach out and snag his nipple with my index finger and thumb. He yelps, smacks my hand away, and steps backward. “What the fuck, dude?”
“Stop avoiding the question and tell us what you know.”
“She threatened to wish a one-fifty batting average on me,” Knox says, looking pathetic and panicked all at once. “One fucking fifty.”
Carson leans against the door, arms crossed as well. “You are the least superstitious person I know.”
It’s true, when every other Brentwood baseball player believed in the power of the locker room and how if you took your girl back there to do the deed, you’d end up together forever, Knox pushed it off as a bunch of bullshit.
“You don’t know Dottie, she’s powerful.” He whispers, “She knows people.”
“Well, Christ, if she knows people, then we shouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.” Carson rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you don’t want to say anything because one of Emory’s friends seems like a threat to you, then just nod or shake your head to our questions, and that way you’re not actually saying anything.”
Finger poised to make a point, I say, “Body language counts as a universal—”
“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Carson says to me. “Don’t you want to know more about Dottie?”
He has a point.
“Sorry. Proceed.”
“Thank you.” Turning back to Knox, Carson asks, “Did Dottie donate to Jason’s fundraiser?”
He nods yes.
“Is she the Dorothy Domico that won the date?”
Yes.
“Did you know she was cancelling the date?”
Yes.
“Do you know why?”
No.
“Are you lying to us?”
No.
Carson taps his chin and then asks, “Why did she donate the money?”
“That’s not a yes or no question,” Knox says.
“I’m sick of this shit. Be a man and tell us what you know.”
“Was it from my potato salad post?”
“No one cares about your potato salad,” Knox groans and walks back to the living room where we follow him.
“I’ll have you know, that post got me a lot of DMs. I was fielding recipe questions for hours.”
“Congratulations,” Carson says, annoyed. “You have the attention of every seventy-five-year-old woman.” He scrubs his face. “I don’t know why I insist on helping you fools.”
“I’m not going to tell you guys anything. I made a promise to Emory and Dottie that I wouldn’t.”
“That’s shit and you know it,” I say, pointing at Knox. “What ever happened to balls before booty calls?”
“First of all,” Knox says, voice stern, “Emory is anything but a booty call. Second, when you’re in a serious and committed relationship, you’ll know what it means to keep a secret. Back me up, Carson.”
He groans and then nods. “Hate to admit it, but the missus is the same way. I would die with her secrets. I think you might be out of luck.”
“Great.” I throw up my arms. “So you’re telling me one of Emory’s friends who we went to college with donated ten thousand dollars to my charity but refuses to go on a date with me? What was the point even of donating?”
They both shrug their shoulders, annoying the shit out of me.
“You’re both useless. Looks like I might just have to take matters into my own hands.”
“Sorry, man,” Knox mumbles. At least he looks marginally contrite.
“There’s still wings, beer, and PlayStation,” Carson says. Like that will fix my dilemma. Although, wings, beer, and PlayStation have worked before.
That night, after sharing three dozen wings with the boys and playing PlayStation, I scooted across to my apartment and pulled up my good friend, Google, where I spent the next hour searching out every piece of information I could find on Dottie.
Normally, I’m not this invested in creeping on someone, but ten thousand dollars? No one donates that much money without a reason.
And I’m going to find out what it is.
Chapter Seventy
DOTTIE
Knock. Knock.
I don’t have to look up from my computer to know my dad is standing in the doorway of my office. If I hadn’t heard him chatting up my employees on the way in, I could have smelled his cool aftershave from the moment he walked down the hall. It’s not overpowering, but instead, has a surprising light air about it that carries throughout the halls. It matches his persona—charismatic and powerful.
“Aren’t you going to come give your dad a hug?” I smile. I’ve missed hearing his rich and calming voice.
“Let me finish this email.”
“Ah, always working. I should have taught you to have some fun too.” He rounds my desk and leans over to give me a hug. I know his eyes are fixed on my computer while he does it, because even though he trusts me in this position, he’s still very much invested in the company. Looking over my shoulder has never been something he’s hidden. And in many ways, it’s given me confidence over the years. He’s often had words of encouragement and well-timed suggestions.
I return the hug and finish my email quickly, while he takes a seat across from me. I save it in my drafts so I can review it one more time before pressing send and then direct my attention to my dad.
“How are you?” I smile at him. I’ve been a daddy’s girl for as long as I can remember, and even though I have a strong relationship with my mom, my father and I have a more dynamic bond. I love my dad more than anything. “Enjoying your time in Chicago?”
“Always. I love it here. I can see why you wanted to stay and establish roots. It has a New York City quality to it but not as dirty.”
“Plus the food is amazing.”
He pats his stomach. “I think I’ve put on a few pounds since I’ve been here. Your mother keeps dragging me to all these places on her Yelp approved list.”
“Mom just loves finding holes-in-the-wall, doesn’t she?”
“You could say that. She found this place the other day that didn’t have one window in it. I thought we were done, that was until we snuck into a basement and had some of the best dim sum I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
“Better than the dim sum you had in San Francisco in Chinatown?”
“Dare I say, yes?” He chuckles, a good hearty sound. “Although, don’t tell your mother that. She’d divorce me. We still make trips to San Francisco so she can have that dim sum a few times a year.”
“She knows what she likes, and you can’t fault her for that.”
My dad shakes his head. “I never would. She’s an angel, and I plan on keeping her as happy as can be.”
What I wouldn’t give for a relationship like what my parents have. They met before my dad started making a ton of money, before his company really boomed. Growing up, they told me stories about their humble beginnings, in the small studio apartment in Los Angeles they lived in for two years, the bed working as a dining room table, a place to sleep, and my dad’s home office. I don’t know how they did it, but they still tell me to this day, it was some of the best times they had together. They struggled through occasional disagreements and frustrations, and sometimes found the four walls a little . . . cramped . . . to say the least. But the perseverance it took to keep the company and their marriage together—and the learned knowledge that humor was often required in spades—was what grew their relationship from friends to lovers to best friends and more.