Page 41 of Don't Look Away

He laughs. “Manipulate the manipulator.”

“Exactly.”

“How do you know so much about narcissists?”

I purse my lips. “My mom,” I answer evenly. “All she ever thinks about is herself, and how things will affecther. Growing up, I learned how to use that toxic trait to my advantage. I mean, as much as I could. She wasn’t in my life for very long.”

“You’re a smart cookie.” He glances over at me and smiles. “And your mom did at leastonething right. She raised a pretty strong woman.”

“Well, if that’s true, then we have my grandmother to thank for that. She’s really the one who raised me,” I say, smiling back.

“What about your dad?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No Dad. I don’t even know who he is.”

“Your mom never told you?”

“Nope. Whenever I asked, she would just tell me she never knew him, not even his first name.”

“Damn, that’s fucked up.” He shakes his head, one hand on my thigh, the other slung casually over the steering wheel. “Any kid of mine is going to know who I am, that’s for damn sure.”

Dear God, I suddenly feel sick. And not because I’m pregnant (because I’m not), but because, somehow, we’ve come back around to the subject of children and fatherhood, and at the moment, that subject is a little touchy for me…

Thankfully, I don’t need to respond, because we pull into the Exeter House parking lot, pulling under the covered carport that stretches over the elegant front entrance. Roman kills the engine and pops out of the car, dropping his keys into the waiting hand of a valet. My door opens, and I’m greeted by another valet, extending his white-gloved hand to help me out.

Roman comes around the front of the car and addresses the valet. “Keep it up front. We won’t be long.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roman grabs my hand and threads his fingers through mine. It’s weird how easy we can be together, and just falling into this comfortable rhythm is everything I need right now. Squeezing my hand, he leads me through the front doors of Exeter House.

The second we step over the threshold, I gasp audibly. The foyer isbreathtaking—circular with frescoes painted on the ceiling, and huge, Grecian-style pillars surrounding the entire space. It’s spectacular, and I already feel out of place in my jeans and t-shirt. I’m only three steps inside the door, and already wondering how so much wealth and luxury is even possible. People actually live like this, which is wild to me.

“I don’t think I’m dressed for this place,” I say, grabbing his forearm with my free hand. If I could crawl inside his hoodie and hide, I absolutely would.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says casually, like just waltzing into Exeter House is an everyday thing for him, and maybe it is, I don’t know, but being amidst this level of luxury is so foreign to me.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rush,” a woman behind the front desk says as we pass by. “If you’re looking for your father, he’s in the dining room.”

Roman nods in acknowledgment but says nothing. He’s on a mission, clearly. But as we approach the door leading to Exeter’s restaurant, Isca, he pauses and turns to me sharply. “Okay,” he starts, his gaze locked on my face. “I’m going to leave you at the bar while I talk to my dad. He can be pretty combative, and I don’t want you caught up in his bullshit.”

“Uh, okay,” I say, a little disappointed. I was hoping to gather whatever information I could on thesociety businesshe’s here to talk about, but honestly, not meeting his dad is probably for the best. He sounds like an absolute cunt.

We step into Isca, and the host pops up from his polished mahogany podium to greet us. “Mr. Rush,” the older man says, bowing his head in greeting. Then he turns and gestures to the south/west corner of the room with his white-gloved hand. “Your father is sitting at his usual table.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Roman says, breezing past the host, and walking me straight to the bar. He flags the bartender down. “She’s with me. Anything she wants is on the Rush tab.”

The bartender, a woman who looks like she’s in her mid-thirties, smiles and pushes a menu in front of me. “Sure thing. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

I climb up onto a barstool and pick up the menu. I’m not really hungry, but I should eat something anyway. “Thanks.”

Roman kisses the tip of my nose gently. “Stay put. I won’t be long.”

The bartender is hovering, so I order a glass of sparkling water to start, just to get her out of the way. Then my gaze follows Roman as he weaves through the dining room to his father’s table, which is on the far side of the room.

I scrutinize his dad, and I can definitely see the resemblance. He’s a bit older than I expected, maybe in his late fifties, with graying hair, and a face almost exactly like Roman’s. Only the shape of his mouth is different, and he’s sitting, so his height is hard to determine, but it looks like he might be a bit shorter than his son.

Roman approaches his dad’s table, and his dad looks up from his meal. He’s alone, and the reception he gives his son is chilly, at best. He doesn’t look pleased to see Roman at all, which is weird to me. Evenmymom, who is a selfish cunt, would be happy to see me if I just popped up—or, at least, she’dfeignhappiness. It’s all about optics and perception with her.

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