“We don’t know that until we try.” He glances at his watch. “Oh, I did promise you dinner, didn’t I?”
“That is the least of my concerns, Aiden.”
“If you’re worried about the time . . .” He taps the address into his phone GPS. “We’re long past rush hour, so we should be able to eat, check the address and return you to Unstable by midnight. Is that all right?”
“That means you’d be home after one. On a weeknight.”
“There are benefits to being the boss.”
His voice is a little too chipper, as if he’s forcing himself to remember that he is the boss.
“Aiden.” I take a deep breath. “I get that you want a distraction, and I am more than happy to provide one, if that’s why we’re doing this.”
He straightens. “No, no, of course not. While I welcome the distraction, I wouldn’t drag you all over New England for that. This painting bears a terrible curse, and if you can remove it—regardless of whether we can purchase it—that is for the best.”
I wait as he drives to the highway. Then I twist to face him. “I can’t sneak into the room and uncurse it while you distract the owner. It’ll take time.”
“Then I’ll buy the painting.”
“I’m saying that if you need tonight as a distraction, I’m here for it. I’m here for you, Aiden. We can track down this painting or we can grab a burger and drive all night. I don’t care. I just don’t want you running around chasing a cursed painting because you think I need it.” I meet his gaze. “Or because you think I’m upset over last weekend. Yes, I was annoyed. I worried that I’d done something wrong.”
“You didn’t,” he says emphatically. “It was absolutely not you.”
“Or that it was us. Our friendship. You were pulling back, which is your prerogative.”
“It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t us. If I thought you might think that, I would have clarified. This is my problem. It does not . . .”
He trails off and snaps out his sunglasses before realizing the sun has sunk too low to need them. He hesitates, glasses in hand, as if robbed of the chance to hide behind them.
“It does not directly have anything to do with you,” he says.
I remember that name flashing on his screen. Theodora O’Toole.
It does not have anything directly to do with you, Kennedy.
“I would like to check out that address,” I say. “Whether it’s to distract you from an external issue or just for the sake of crossing that off the list, since we’re in the area.”
He exhales and signals to change lanes for the highway. “Excellent.”
“I’d like something else,” I say. “In the interests of being honest. Something is going on with your family. I know it’s none of my business. But if you’d like to talk about it, I’m here, as I said. I just need a yes or a no, so I stop hovering, wondering whether I should push. Do you want to talk? Or should I drop it?”
He turns onto the highway. Drives another two miles before saying, “I believe we should discuss it as it does . . .” He clears his throat. “It tangentially involves you, though I am trying very hard to keep you out of it.” Another throat clearing. “We should talk. Perhaps over dinner?”
“Let me find something along the way.”
Chapter Five
Five
We’re at a cafe. I get a salad with enough feta and pecans and candied fruit to ensure it’s no healthier than a fast-food burger. Connolly is far more virtuous, as always, selecting a baby green salad and wrap. It’s a warm night, and we take our food outside to eat. We’re the only customers on the patio. The only customers at all, with the shop due to close in five minutes.
I eat my salad and sip my seltzer as Connolly picks at his food. Then he says, “My parents have decided it’s time for me to get married.”
My head jerks up so fast that, for a second, I’m sitting with lettuce hanging from my mouth, like a cow disturbed at the trough. I quickly shovel it in and swallow before I laugh, tension leaching from my shoulders.
“Ah,” I say. “You are closing in on thirty, after all.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“Like I said, closing in on thirty.” I grin at him. “Time to start pumping out little Connollys.”
I expect him to at least roll his eyes. He only stabs his salad.
“I’m kidding, Connolly. Your parents might want grandbabies, but you are under no obligation to provide them.”
He keeps eating.
“Aiden? Is this an inheritance thing? Or a trust fund thing?”
His gaze cools. “I do not care about my inheritance. Nor about my trust fund.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t an insult. I got an inheritance, and technically, it’s in a trust fund. I’ve drawn from it before, and I will again. No judgment here.”
“Your situation is different,” he says, his voice softening. “And I didn’t mean to get defensive.”
“Point is, you don’t need money. Your parents can want grandbabies all they like, but they’re stuck hinting and grumbling, like every other parent with adult kids.”
“It’s . . .” He stabs a tomato. “Different for us.”
“Different how?”
“New England luck workers practice arranged marriage.”
I blink. Then I blink some more before I manage to give a strangled, “What?”
“Arranged marriage. It’s common in many cultures.” His voice takes on a clipped tone. “In our case, it isn’t religion; it’s custom. To keep the magical bloodline strong, we marry within it.”
I remember hearing that his parents were both luck workers. I’d gotten the impression that was by design rather than choice, but I hadn’t made the jump to arranged marriage.
“All right,” I say slowly. “So your parents are arranging your marriage, and you’re dealing with the stress of that. I’m sorry if it seemed as if I was mocking your traditions.”
He stares at me for a moment, and then makes a strangled sound, halfway to a laugh. “I don’t want my marriage arranged, Kennedy. I want to marry whomever I choose, whenever I choose.”
I keep my face impassive and pray I don’t look as relieved as I feel. “So tell them no. You’re financially independent. The only thing they hold over you is their love.” Now I really have to keep my face straight, in hopes I don’t give away my thoughts on that. “They’ll be disappointed, maybe even angry, but ultimately, you’re their son. They won’t stay mad for long.” I quirk a smile. “Hey, you might even get a few interference-free months out of it.”
He doesn’t return the smile. Doesn’t meet my eyes. Just pushes around the salad on his plate. “I am not entirely financially independent. I owe a debt I cannot yet repay.”
“Okay . . .”
“When I received my admission letter for Harvard, I made an agreement, and when I turned eighteen, I signed the contract for that agreement. My parents paid for my tuition. In return, I agreed to allow them to arrange my marriage. If I default on that, I owe the tuition. Immediately.”