Page 21 of Best Kind of Trouble
“You did?” my father asks. He leans forward in anticipation,as if Briar Boot Camp finally became worthy of his attention in its last sorry episodes. “Who?”
“I can’t say yet. He hasn’t resigned from his current job.”
“Someone interesting?”
I think of Liam watching me punch that bag. Liam with a hair tie on his wrist and a history of anger management classes. Liam, who makes the best beer I’ve ever tasted.
“Yes. Someoneveryinteresting.”
“You’ll bring him to our next family dinner,” he says, making it clear it’s not a request.
“But the next one is practically on Christmas.”
I hope that’ll pacify him.
We usually have dinner every Friday evening, except it’s not happening this week because my mother is getting a chemical peel. That’s not the official reason, but it’s the real reason.
The Friday after that is December 22, two days before Christmas Eve. What are the chances Liam will even be in town? I know for sure that Hannah will be traveling for the holiday. For all I know, Liam might be going to New York City with her. With any luck, he is, because I donotwant him attending any family dinners at Sterling Manor.
Yes, my parentsnamedtheir house. There’s a sign out front and everything. They also serve dinners that require multiple sets of silverware. Something tells me Liam would laugh his ass off if asked to identify a salad fork.
No, he’ll never respect me if he comes to one of those tedious family dinners. I’ll always be the little rich girl with the silver last name, the silver brewery, and a proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Briar Sterling, sitting beneath the wooden recipe for success that will probably fall down and crush her someday.
My father clicks the annoying Christmas song back on, laughing to himself as he bobs his shoulders to the beat.
“I’ll ask him,” I say tightly.
“There’s one more stipulation,” Uncle John says.
My father grins as he shuts the song off again. “You’ll like this one. Your old friend Melly’s back in town. She’s one of those influencers. You know, with ‘social media’”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“and she’s doing some freelance writing on the side forThe Asheville Gazette. She’s agreed to write an article about the changing of the guard at Silver Star as a favor to us. Isn’t that sweet?”
I feel my hands start to tremble, but I straighten my back. “Yes, but there’s no need. I’d rather she didn’t.”
His merry expression takes a hit. “You and Melly went to boarding school together for twelve years. You lived in the same dormitory.”
No need to remind me. I’llneverforget her.
My parents don’t know what she did to me, but something tells me my father would have asked me anyway—as a test of my mettle.
“It’s part of the deal. Take it or leave it, honey,” my father says. “This is the offer. Myfinaloffer. If you walk away now, I’ll sell the brewery.”
It’s obvious he views himself as a game show host offering a couple of exciting last-minute twists to entertain the audience.
The next time I’m at his house, I have devious plans for his Wi-Fi router. He’s so technically unsavvy, it might take him weeks to fix it.
“Well?” Uncle John asks.
I clench my teeth and nod. “I’ll sign.”
I loop the letters across the page, feeling every bit like I’m selling my soul.
I go straightfrom the lawyer’s office to the bar across the street.
Unfortunately, it’s closed. They’reallclosed, because it’s not even noon on a Monday. So I walk a few blocks farther and head into Sunshine Diner, which has an enthusiastic name but is a bit disappointing inside—plastic cushioned booths that probably squeak if you sit on them, a red jukebox with worn buttons, and a droopy Christmas tree with sad plastic ornaments. I seat myself at one of the small off-white tables, and when a server comes by, I refuse the food menu and order a double whiskey.
“Are you sure?” the middle-aged server says, wrinkling her nose as she adjusts her frilly half apron. “It’s not very good.”
“It’s good enough for me.”
