Page 36 of Love You More

“I haven’t invited anyone, but I will.”

She shakes her head, tapping her pen on the list in her hand. “I need a name today. How about Mallory Rutherford?” I don’t mean to cringe at the mention of Mallory’s name, but it happens anyway.

“No. Not her.”

“Why not? You guys still make a nice-looking couple, and theTimeswill be here for media shots. You might as well look the part of industry titan.”

“There are four more of you who can look like titans. I just want to drink a gin and tonic in a corner, shake a few hands, and get the hell out.”

“Invite Mallory.”

“It’s too complicated.”

A deep laugh rolls from PJ. “Why, because you won’t be able to keep your hands off her? I’d say that’s a good kind of complicated.” She’s right. Sort of. She’s recalling a hot minute when Mallory and I hooked up at a party right after my wife left. I was drunk and very willing. But it was never going to be more than a one-night thing, though in my depressed drunkenness, I’m not sure I communicated that well.

“It’s not. Besides, she’ll be there anyway.” Her parents own a massive piece of land with a small winery that half the Napa Valley vintners are dying to buy. They’ve never been willing to consider an offer, but Mallory will take over eventually, and she’s been teasing everyone with plans to sell. It’s part of how we ended up together that other night. Started out as her laying out her future ideas for the estate and me thinking it could be a shrewd financial coup if I could pull it off.

Seven gin and tonics later, she was in my bed, no potential deal was on the table, and I was filled with regret. I haven’t seen her since then, so if anything, I should be avoiding her at the event, not walking in with her.

“Exactly. Better if she’s on your arm. And besides, maybe it’ll put us higher on the list when she wants to sell.”

“Now you’re out of your depth. Stick to PR.” It’s a low blow, but we each have our bailiwicks, and the finances of the vineyard aren’t hers. Neither, for that matter, is who I do or don’t bring to an event.

“Maybe I’ll just bring Ruby. She works for me. I’ll pay her to go.”

I don’t meet my sister’s eye because I know she’ll judge me, and I’m trying to play this off like the thought just occurred to me.

A lark. A whim.

Focusing on my computer screen, I pretend I’m thoughtfully composing an email, but instead, I’m gritting my teeth, waiting for her to give me her opinion.

My casual declaration is met with silence. Here we go. If she has an opinion, she’s not going to share it because that would be too easy. It would allow for an actual discussion. An argument, even.

I can win an argument. I can’t win against silence.

PJ is good at this.

Never one to suffer fools, she can wait a person out forever. She can win arguments without saying a word. Her steely stare is enough to have me thinking twice about what I’ve said, reasoning myself through the opposite scenario, and deciding I agree more with that view.

“Did you hear what I said?” I ask, finally, knowing full well that Ruby will probably balk at the idea of being paid to go to an event, feeling like it’s charity.

“I heard you. Did you hear yourself?”

“Um, pretty certain that’s not the point since I said the words.”

She hops up on the corner of my desk and crosses her ankles, leaning back on her hands. If I want to see her face, I need to get up from my desk and walk around to the other side.

“What?” I don’t have time to wait out her silent treatment or read any tea leaves to find out what she’s thinking.

“You can’t bring your nanny to the IMA event.”

“She’s not just my nanny. She happens to work for Buttercup, and you yourself said she was one of the best assistants you had the night she helped you at the Bloomfield wedding.”

PJ looks at her list again as though it will reveal what she should say.

“Look, you know I like her, and yes, she was great at the wedding…but this is a business decision. Like I said, you’ll be photographed, and this dinner is always a media zoo. I can’t have any accidents. You need to be with someone…appropriate.”

By which she means that she can’t have people attending who might be wildcards, like my young nanny, who might get tongues wagging about whether I’m back on the eligible bachelors list after my marriage flameout.

---