Page 32 of Fletch

“What’s he think about your breakup?”

“I haven’t told him, but no doubt Pete will fill him in the second he gets a chance.”

“You don’t seem very upset over it,” I remark, and she stares down into her drink.

“We were never going to work,” she admits. “He’s a stuck-up prick with more money than sense.” She sighs. “He got me a new car.”

I raise my brows in surprise. “A nice one?”

She grins. “A beamer.”

I laugh. “Makes sense.”

“He wanted to change me.”

“How?”

She shrugs. “To be the perfect wife. He wanted me to hold dinner parties and entertain his boring surgical associates. We never did anything fun together.”

“He sounds like a dream.”

“He was a carbon copy of my father, and I have no fucking clue why I ever went for him because I hate my father.” Her admission means she’s opening up and relaxing.

“You always felt a need to keep him happy.”

She nods in agreement. “Fat lot of good that did me.”

“And he went on to have another kid,” I say, my words sounding every bit surprised.

“Ruby isn’t keen on him either,” she tells me. “I wish I could get her away from him.”

“He’s her father, and I’m sure her mother makes up for the parts he’s lacking.”

Gemma scoffs. “She’s a witch.”

“It’s surprising anyone puts up with your father, so hats off to her.”

Gemma rolls her eyes again, “She sticks around because of what he gave her.” She shakes her head, frowning slightly. “I mean, what he can give her.”

“A money grabber?”

“Sort of. Tell me about you,” she says, sipping her drink. “Not club life, just . . . life.”

“Not much to tell.”

“You used to say that a lot, Fletch. But what about your childhood and your parents? What happened to them?”

“I’m a lone wolf,” I say with a grin, finishing off my drink. “Another?” I ask, tipping my empty glass to her. She nods, and I head back to the bar.

I instructed the bartender to keep the drinks flowing, and after three more double whiskeys for Gemma and only single pours for me, she’s a lot more relaxed. Her cheeks have a healthy glow, and she’s laughing at all my crap jokes.

“I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” she mumbles, narrowing her eyes when the bartender places another two drinks at the end of the bar. I take them, handing her one.

“You’re allowed to drink when you have a broken heart,” I say, winking.

“What’s your excuse?” she asks with a smirk.

“I’m your moral support.”

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