“Camilla, stop it.”
“They’re overbearing, Mother,” I hiss. “They won’t leave it be. I don’t have to parade whoever I’m seeing in front of the family if I don’t want to. Shit.”
“Camilla Jane!” Her jaw drops open. “That’s no way for a lady to talk.”
“This is also no way to be treated,” I volley back.
“They’re just worried about their little sister. You can’t blame them.”
“Oh, I can.”
She sits back in her seat, getting a new strategy together. It’s the look in her eye, the way the greens flare through the blues that has me forcing a swallow.
“I had a chat with Ford yesterday after the baby announcement. He’s worried, Camilla.”
“I give up,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “I see now why Sienna wants to move to Illinois.”
“That isn’t nice.”
“This isn’t nice either! Don’t you see?”
She ignores me. “Ford hinted that the boys want to call up Nick Parker—”
“The private investigator?” I cry, recognizing the name from Barrett’s campaign. “Mother!”
“I told him not to,” she promises. “I said that was a step too far.”
“You think?”
“But, honey, you’re going to have to let us meet him.”
She sips her water, the lemon a bright spot as it gets flipped below the ice. I focus on that and not the impending doom that’s burrowing in my gut, making the Cobb salad I just ate threaten to come back up.
“I want you to know,” Mom says, wiping her lips with a linen cloth, “that I trust your judgement. If you like this man, then I’m sure he’s an admirable person.”
“I do like him.”
“Do you love him?”
It’s easier to ponder this question in the privacy of your own mind. There, you can answer or not, tell the truth or not, shove it off to the side if you prefer while you go do something else. It’s impossible to consider this question sitting across from the one person that can read you like a book.
“Camilla?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you don’t,” she says simply. “If you love someone, you know it.”
“It’s more complicated than that, Mom.”
“Honey,” she says, her bracelets jingling off the tabletop as she leans forward, “love is always complicated.”
“I said I didn’t know. You said that means I don’t.”
She smiles. “Can I give you some advice?”
“You’re going to anyway.”
“Your brothers are overbearing. I know that. Your father can be too. But don’t let them sway you to or from someone that makes you happy. Okay?”
My eyes drop to the table, my stomach churning. “What if . . . what if no one will like him? What if they even hate him or don’t understand him?”
“Is he nice to you?”
“Yes,” I say immediately, looking up at her.
“Does he make you smile?”
My lips turn up. “Yes.”
“Is he respectful? Is he loyal?”
“Yes.”
“Then your brothers will come around,” she says. “And if they don’t, you’ll have to tell your mom. I hear she has some pull. Most of them have wives now too that can help keep them in line.”
Although I’m still not sure this helps anything or only confuses me more, I stand and walk around the table. Wrapping my arms around her, I squeeze. She smells of expensive perfume and the warmth of home. “Thank you,” I say against her cheek.
She pats my arm. “I do want you to think about introducing him to someone. Me, Ford, Graham—”
“Graham?” I say, pulling back. “Let’s just ask for his tax returns and background check while we’re at it. He’ll make him think it’s an interview for a job!”
Mom laughs, pushing away from the table. “It is, in a way. If he’s serious about stepping into your life, your brothers . . . and your father and I,” she says pointedly, “will expect a certain level of responsibility.”
We gather our things and head for the elevator. I admire the way she almost glides through the room, waving discreetly at certain acquaintances.
“Mom?”
“What, Camilla?”
I rest my head on her shoulder as we stand behind a handful of people for the elevator waiting for the button to ding. “Why couldn’t you have had Sienna and I first?”
“We had to save the best for last.” She turns her head until she’s looking at me and winks.
“Good point.”
The Gold Room sits in front of me in all its non-glory. I didn’t mean to come here specifically. When I left Mom in the parking lot of Picante, I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to call my friend Joy and see if she wanted to head to yoga or go shopping. All I wanted was to see Dominic. Maybe I even needed to see him, but the thought of that makes me lightheaded.
Now I’m here. Biting my lip. Fighting the rumble in my gut.
If needing to see him makes me lightheaded, seeing him here, at the bar, makes me downright dizzy.
Looking from the half-lit sign to my phone, wondering if I should call him first and warn him or just walk in, I refuse to bite my freshly painted nails even though I want to gnaw them off.
It could very well be counterproductive to think showing up here will satisfy the craving I have for him. The Gold Room is off-limits to me. Yet, here I am.
“You’re stupid,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my purse off the passenger seat and locking the car door behind me. I garner a whistle and a lewd offer before I can get to the heavy front doors. It takes a little more effort than it should to pull them open and step inside.
The bar was probably the place to be at some point before I was born. There are traces of its past elegance in the trim, the molding, the layout of the space. It’s almost regal, like some of the old restaurants my parents frequent. This is just less cared for. It smells salty, kind of like body odor but not quite as offensive, and could use a good “air out,” as my mother would say.
“Who the hell is that?” A man at the end of the bar slams his drink down, looking at me with a wobbling swagger.
“That’s a broken jaw if you don’t check yourself,” Nate says, coming around the corner. With a thump on the counter in front of the man, making him jump, he calms me with his bright, wide smile. “What are you doing here, Priss?”
His nickname for me, short for Prissy, bothered me when he first began using it. Now it’s almost a term of endearment. If he stopped calling me Priss, I might be offended.
“Oh, just in the neighborhood,” I say, sighing for effect. “Is Dom around?”
Nate’s lips press together as he tries to hide a grin. “Is he supposed to be?”
“He said he was coming by,” I shrug, chewing my bottom lip.
“I’m guessing he doesn’t know you’re here,” he smirks.
“You would guess right, sir.”
Nate runs his hands through his dark hair that’s the exact color of Dom’s, but cut closer to the scalp. He shakes his head, clearly amused that I’m standing in his bar. He heaves a breath and blows it out slowly.
“Are you going to help me or not?” I laugh.
“Fine,” he sighs. “Dom’s in the back.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s just looking over some papers for me.”