Page 9 of Smooth Talk

“Taking it easier, isn’t retiring. I’m 62, not dead. Besides, what would I do with my free time? Join some of your mother’s causes? You know I can’t say no to that woman,” his eyes are sparkling while he talks about her; “I don’t know many people who can.” Me either. It’s hard to believe two people can still be that much in love after almost 38 years of marriage, but my parents are that rare couple who just might love each other more now than when they first wed. For the first time in my life I feel the pang of jealousy. The women who have come into my life aren’t exactly interested in a long-term relationship. And those that are, are more attracted to my money (or my family’s money) than my heart.

“I hope not. You can work ‘til you’re 90 if it means you’ll stay out of my business.”

“Uh oh, what has she done now?” He asks, knowing firsthand that my mother’s antics, while well-meaning can be quite outrageous at times.

“Nothing,” he looks at me like he’s going to find out later anyway, so I may as well tell him now. I sigh, “She invited me to Nosh so I could meet someone.”

His brow furrows lightly, “for the campaign?”

“Um, no.” I pause, “for the gala.”

He chuckles, “You know your mother means well.” I open my mouth to let him know exactly how I feel about her intentions when he asks, “What was she like?”

I don’t know how to describe what Poppy was like or how I felt when I’d met her. Should I describe her stunning physical attributes or the way my heart had pounded holding her delicate hand in mine. I probably couldn’t do either without sounding crass or giving my dad the wrong idea. While I’m thinking of how best to answer, I realize my dad is chuckling again.

“From the smile on your face, I’d say your mother might be on to something. Cut her a little slack, huh?” Shit. I am smiling. She obviously felt the attraction too, but she ran from it. Almost literally. I’ll have to find a way to make her stay longer next time we meet. And there will be a next time. I’m getting all kinds of ideas already, but before my mind can delve too deeply, my father interrupts.

“You look tired son. Are you getting enough rest?” Not wanting to get into anything with him right now, I just nod. “I know you need this lecture less than your brother, but… don’t work too hard. There’s more to life than clients, mergers and money.” I’ve heard those words my entire life. I’ve lived my life by them. I work hard, but I play just as hard.

My father leads by example. His work ethic is unmatched (well, Oliver has probably surpassed it in recent years), but dad’s always made time for family. He spent Saturdays with each of his children doing something special with us. Honing a skill, relaxing, talking one on one. For me it was fishing; he’d take Oliver golfing, and practiced martial arts with Lily. He’d take Mase camping and never missed a ballet recital with Vi (when she was young and shy, he’d walk on the edge of the stage behind the curtain for moral support). He’d taken Ash to baseball games and play catch for hours and talk about Uncle Callum, Ash’s real dad. My dad’s younger brother who’d died serving our country. My parents adopted Asher when his mother passed from cancer six months later. We’ve never seen him as a cousin though; he’s always been a brother. Sundays were for the whole family. My parents, grandparents, siblings and uncles came for brunch and we’d spend the afternoons together.

Dad’s the perfect role model. He has to know how very little I need this speech. Or maybe he means something else. Something different. My ‘more to life’ usually involves a few friends, a few drinks and a few women. And it’s made me happy, but I can’t help but wonder if his version wouldn’t make me happier. What would ‘family-man’ look like… on me? My dad has stated multiple times that nothing has given him more pride and joy than his wife and children. His quick sermon has me suddenly pondering the benefits. His light chuckle brings me out of my reverie. It would appear both of my parents are on their A-game today, and my face is just an open book, I guess. Sleep. I need sleep.

He sidesteps me into the elevator. “Just something to think about, son. I’ve got to get going. Nick and I are having lunch at the club, then we’ve got a 2:00 tee time, and I don’t want to be late. You and Cannon should come with us next time. Maybe you can even talk your brother in there into joining us too,” he tips his head toward the corner office. “He used to love hitting the links with your old man.”

“You’d have better luck talking the president into joining you than Oliver. I’d come if I could swing the time to swing a club in the middle of a Tuesday.” I smile, “You know, that pesky little day that comes near the beginning of every work week. Maybe life will slow down once I’m mayor and I’ll have some leisure time.”

“Trust me son, life doesn’t ever slow down. You’ve got to make the time to enjoy it before it’s over.” He gets a distant nostalgic look in his eye, and it makes me wonder when the last time O went with him just for fun, not to schmooze with the partners. Then I realize we haven’t gone fishing in a while either. When’s the last time any of us have had a day with dad? We’re all busy, but we can make time. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to go this Saturday morning. But I’ve waited too long, and he just nods and smiles at me as the doors close.

I sigh and think maybe he handed me that jewel of wisdom because he knows I haven’t been spending my free time wisely. I’d had precious little time this year that wasn’t tied up in a case or the campaign. I’d spent it mainly with women who understood that a one-night arrangement generally meant a few hours of fun followed by an uber home. I’d mistakenly hooked up with a couple of clingers recently, and I was paying a high, very public, price for those lapses in judgement. Apparently, women do not like it when you tell them your stance on relationships, and they discover that they do not possess the magical vagina that changes your mind. A one-night stand does not constitute a relationship. I seem to be falling into that rut of believing a beautiful woman who says one thing but means another. Or thinks they can change me without even getting to know me. News flash— getting to know my dick, is not getting to know me.

I learned early on in life that trusting women is a mistake. Most of them, that aren’t after a wild night in the sheets, are wanting to marry into the Maxwell family for our name or fortune and they don’t particularly care how or whom. And they’ll do just about anything to bring that dream to life. There isn’t a faithful or genuine bone in their body. Maybe I’ve been seeing the wrong kind of women. Maybe I need to switch my game up altogether, see a woman who isn’t receiving academy awards for her acting abilities, a woman of substance. The image of a gorgeous redhead comes to mind again. I can’t seem to make her disappear from my thoughts today. I’m just tired, that’s why I’m having trouble getting rid of her. A little sleep is all I need to forget all about Poppy Monroe. I shake it off and grin as I stroll into Oliver’s office. “You’re late.”

I check my watch, “dude, by two minutes. Dad held me up in the hall.” He nods in understanding.

“I started without you.” He points at his desk, which used to be my father’s. There are napkins, plastic cutlery and to-go boxes from The Market, a little bistro a couple blocks away. Mmm, I smell bacon.

“Gabe’s going to be pissed if he finds out you went somewhere else for lunch.” Shit, Helmut’s going to be pissed if he finds out we didn’t eat what he prepared for us. O and I share a chef. He works three days a week and packages meals for us with heating instructions. Since neither one of us learned how to cook when we were younger, it’s a necessity. I’d rather not eat out every day. Or eat omelets every day. It’s the only thing Pilar successfully taught me to make. And I just remembered that Mut left Thai for dinner tonight. Fuck yes.

“Nah. He’s my Friday lunch spot. Besides, Gabe doesn’t make Pimento Cheese BLT’s, and I was craving one today. I got you one too, but if you’d rather go to Nosh, be my guest.”

I sit, joining him on the opposite side of the desk. It’s still odd not seeing my father’s things around the room, (this was dad’s office since we were kids, until he moved into the larger corner of the top floor when he brought Oliver on after college) but I’m happy for my brother. He’s COO at Maxwell Holdings, soon to be CEO. It’s what he’s always wanted since he was little. Dad’s been taking a step back, but he hasn’t fully handed the reins over to Oliver yet. Not that he doesn’t trust O, he’s just not ready to take that step himself.

“No thanks, I just left there.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “I didn’t eat. I met with our meddling mother.”

O laughs, “What’d she rope you into this time? Wait.” He gets a serious look in his eyes and taps his keyboard a couple times making the screen light up. “Does it in any way involve an auction, a tournament or a ladies’ luncheon? What’s the date? I’ll check my calendar for prior engagements.” My brother, also wise to our mother’s game, usually gets out of doing most of the things she talks the rest of us siblings into, so he invariably ends up getting a second-hand account of the shenanigans, laughing his ass off at all of us, while keeping his pride intact.

“Nope, nothing like that. She introduced me to someone.” He raises his eyebrows and stares at me. I assume he’s attempting to see if his mind meld is still intact. “What’s her name?” Apparently, it is.

“Poppy Monroe,” I say before taking a gigantic bite of my sandwich. Flavor explodes on my tongue and I moan. God, that’s good. How there are non-bacon-eating-by-choice people in this world, I will never understand.

I see him tap his phone a few times and scroll. He lets out a low whistle. “What’s the problem? She’s hot, owns her own business in town, graduated with honors from NYU, and it looks like we have some friends in common.” He got all that from a cursory social media search? I’d like to jerk that phone right out of his hand and cyber-stalk the shit out of her, but something tells me it’d be more interesting, and satisfying, to learn details about Poppy straight from the source. This isn’t a bad start though.

He looks at me like he’s not sure why I’m not interested. Little does he know; I am very interested. I see him scrolling again. “Although I will say, she’s not your usual type.” I find myself getting irrationally angry at my brother for the second time today. Both times have involved the same woman. I know Poppy’s hot; it doesn’t mean I want to hear O saying that shit about her. And what does he mean, she’s not my type? What does he know anyway?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He just shrugs with a smirk. “She’s attractive, talented, smart,” he raises his brows again. “Okay, so I don’t typically date members of Mensa.” He snickers. “Okay so I don’t typically date. Period.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

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