Ben peeks into my office. “You ready?”
I nod and gulp down the last sip of lukewarm coffee in my mug. “Yeah. Where’s Dad?”
“He’s ditching us today. Wants to take the new legal intern out to lunch for some kind of orientation.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “We have a new legal intern?”
“Apparently. Kathy something.”
Interesting. I don’t recall an intern at the meeting where Legal handed me my ass on a silver platter. Whatever. My legal team is the best, so if they need an intern, I’m good with it.
I rise. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”
…
My brother is younger than I am, much more talkative and charismatic, and a bit of a loose cannon. Still, he’s smart as a whip and works nearly as hard as I do. His contribution to the company is unequaled, and I depend on him as my right-hand man. He may not have invented the product that put us on the map, but his skills at promotion and marketing led to our success just as much.
“The good Misters Black.” The maître d’ smiles. “Your regular table?”
“Is there any room at the bar today?” I ask.
“For you two? Of course.”
Union Oyster House is the oldest restaurant in Boston and even claims to be the oldest restaurant in continuous service in the United States. Daniel Webster and JFK were big fans. The place epitomizes the American dream, and I love everything about it—especially the oyster bar. Nothing like watching a fresh oyster get shucked, dabbing it with cocktail sauce, and sliding it onto your tongue. One time, right after Ben and I started Black, Inc., one of our favorite shuckers, Mickey, invited us behind the bar and taught us how to shuck. It’s a lot harder than they make it look. Mickey retired a few years ago, and today, as I take my place at the bar, I don’t recognize any of the shuckers.
The din of conversation is white noise around us. This isn’t the best place to conduct business—it’s too noisy—but that’s not what these monthly lunches are for. They’re for family, to remember what’s important. I often need that reminder as I get so engrossed in my work, I neglect my brother and father.
Ben and I have a good relationship. Brother squabbles sometimes, sure, but we’re pretty close. My father and I? That’s another story. Sober for over two decades, Robert Black is smart but trying in some ways. Due to things I don’t allow myself to think about, he and I have a love-hate relationship. But he’s my father, so I let him into my business, and he does an excellent job with the board of directors, of which he’s chairman. He’s a natural leader in many ways—he owned a small construction company before Black, Inc. made it big—and I learned much of what I know about running a business from him.
In truth, I’m glad he bailed today. This way, I can talk to my brother about the woman he’s currently dating. Not my business, of course, but Ben seems to attract gold diggers. Not that I don’t. I’m just good at ferreting them out before things go too far.
Of course, I never let things go too far anyway.
I open my mouth to start the uncomfortable conversation when—
“I hear you’re seeing Addison Ames’s assistant.”
I keep my mouth from dropping open. Barely.
Addison Ames isn’t someone I speak of. Ever. Just responding to her Instagram post the other day went way over the line as far as I’m concerned, but I couldn’t help myself. Her hypocrisy gets to me sometimes.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Her sister.”
“And you were talking to Apple Ames…why, exactly?”
“We hang out every once in a while.”
I pick my jaw up from the bar again. “You what?”
“There’s a little history there.”
“Yeah, but you know damned well—”
“Easy, Bray. Jeez. We get together. We shoot the breeze about nothing in particular.”
“And…?”
“Yeah. We fuck. What’s wrong with that?”
“I thought you were seeing that other woman. Morgan something or other.”
Ben takes a sip of his water. “That? That’s over.”
This isn’t entirely bad news. At least now I don’t have to have the Come to Jesus talk with my brother about gold-digging women. Morgan What’s Her Name had “get a prenup” written on her forehead.
That’s where the “not bad news” part of this ends, though. Ben got together with Apple Ames, Addie’s twin sister. Yeah, they had a thing once. But Ben and I had an agreement. At least I thought we did.
“The Ames sisters are off-limits,” I say. “Or did you forget about that when you got a chance to get laid?”
“Apple is as casual as they come,” he says. “She doesn’t want anything from me, and I don’t want anything from her. Other than the occasional fuck. She’s a tigress in the sack, so…”
“If it’s a fuck you want, you don’t have to get it from Apple Ames.”
“Apple’s not Addie,” Ben says. “She’s the anti-Addie and then some.”
“Still, with our history…”
“Bray, honest. She’s not her sister. She can’t even stand Addie. Which is why she was only too eager to tell me how pissed off Addie is that you’re dating her assistant.”
“Not dating. And how does she even know?”
“Hell if I know.”
A plate of freshly shucked oysters appears in front of me. I inhale their tangy brininess. Not that I give a shit anyway. I’ll see whomever I please. I’ve never cared what Addison Ames thinks of any decision I make. I rarely give her a thought, except when one of her posts comes up in my feed. Ordinarily, I scroll on by.
Why did that one coffee post irk me so much?
I have no clue, but I’m glad it did. It led me to Skye Manning.
“Apple says Addie’s seeing red about it. I swear to God, more than ten years and the woman’s still hung up on you.”
“She’s not,” I say.
“I know that’s what you want to think, but why else would she care about you dating her assistant? What’s her name, anyway?”
“Skye.” My lips curve upward slightly just saying her name. Damn.
I pick up an oyster, dab a bit of the red sauce on it, and slide it into my mouth. For a split second, I’m lost in the spicy tang.