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“Go get ‘em, tiger.” Cyrus gives my sore shoulder a half-hearted punch.
I cock back, but a throwdown in the middle of the kitchen isn’t on my agenda. Besides, I know he’s got his own shit going on, and it’s okay to distract yourself fucking with your brother’s problems that might seem bigger than your own.
He’s up to his balls in gambling troubles, and not the kind you might think. Cyrus doesn’t lose, but he doesn’t make a lot of friends either.
“You both are next.” I point at my brother and sister. “I mean it. Why do I have to take one for the team?”
“You’re the oldest,” they say in unison, then nod and give each other a self-satisfied fist bump.
“Your time is coming. Both of you.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my white shirt, button my black suit coat, and second guess not wearing a tie.
It’s dinner, asshole, not a deposition.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone. Tapping the screen, I find 16 new voicemails and 10 new text messages since I came into the restaurant fifteen minutes ago. My clients are nothing if not needy. Charging by the five-minute increment helps.
I pull up my notes app and refresh my memory on the bullet points from my grandmother about tonight.
Caroline Duval, daughter of Richard Duval, CEO of the Northfield Group, and Gran’s bridge partner’s granddaughter
27 years old, divorced, twice
Unemployed, last job three years ago as a receptionist in a plastic surgeon’s office
Dark hair, will be wearing a red dress, will meet you in the bar
A bit high-strung but just needs to meet the right man who knows how to handle her
I blow out a breath, close my eyes, and shove my phone back into my pocket, cursing my gran under my breath.
An unemployed, high-strung, trust fund baby with two marriages and two divorces on her resume
Just my type.
Chapter Two
Natalie
