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Preston motions toward me. “Her restaurant.”
She perks. “You own a restaurant, dear?”
Huh. I got a ‘dear’ this time. “Well, not own,” I correct. “I manage The Blue Olive downtown.”
“Haven’t heard of it. McDonough?”
“Atlanta.”
“That’s…nice,” she says, and her interest wanes. Her attention turns to the drink station.
I guess managing a restaurant isn’t all that impressive compared to a surgeon, a Nascar driver, and a…whatever Preston does.
Well, excuse the hell out of my fake career.
I look to Jake.
He offers a small smile and pats my arm as if to say sorry about that. Though he doesn’t look surprised.
She won’t like me after the article runs anyway.
Cruise control.
I remove my hand from his leg and recline into the couch. Sip my bubbly water.
The room isn’t silent for long before a Chippendale butler appears in the doorway to our left. This one has dirty blond hair like Jake’s but is combed down and over. I expect him to say, The name’sBond, James Bond, but he focuses on Magnolia as if the rest of us aren’t here at all. “Dinner is served, madame.”
