Page 26 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

This is the weekend we celebrate the man who has provided a life of luxury by means of financial advisement to the wealthiest Angelenos. My mom goes out of her way to throw the biggest and best party for my dad, spending countless hours planning every meticulous detail. So, there’s no missing it, no matter how much work we have to do. The four of us are expected to be here.

This was the perfect event to bring a date, yet not one name other than Natalie-No-Last-Name came to mind.I’m so fucked.

My brother and I delivered his diamond jubilee gift of cufflinks earlier this evening. He’ll wear them tonight, but otherwise, they’ll join the rest in his collection, rotating them out for special occasions. I imagine cufflinks have to be ranked up there with ties as the most boring gift to receive. They remind me of the life I don’t want to lead.

The door opens, and Andrew leans in to judge me with just a glance. “I thought Mom wanted you in the Brooks Brothers tux?” he asks. Being fashionably late isn’t something my brother and I strive for. It’s an effort to blend in. We usually fail because our good looks run in the family, so we tend to stand out. “I was feeling Armani.”

I shrug the jacket down by the hem and then fix my tie standing in front of the mirror.

“You should have shaved.”

Rubbing my jaw, I walk past him into the hallway. “I like to keep Dad guessing.”

“You mean pissed,” he says, chuckling. “Those are two different things.” He closes my door and then catches up with me before we descend the stairs. Andrew might be two years older, but you wouldn’t know it by our height. We’ve measured, and we’re identical down to the millimeter.Not that we’re competitive or anything.

His hair is a few shades lighter than mine, taking more after Cookie’s than Corbin’s. I look more like my father, inheriting his lighter brown eyes and hair color.

If I’m the golden boy, then Andrew is pure platinum. He fails at nothing, and our dad respects the hell out of him. Andrew also has less of an ax to grind. He always wanted to join the business and followed through. He’s built his own prestigious clientele of new money here in LA, impressing not only my dad but also bringing in some major bank for the company. “Yes, they are,” I say, grinning.

He shakes his head as we walk downstairs. “Are you trying to give him a heart attack on his birthday, Nick?”

I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about financial strategies and the market. I also have no desire to work directly under my father, so joining the legal team—with the intention of one day running it—is the compromise we settled on, which leaves my dad’s sons running the business when he retires. It’s a win all around.

I stop when we land on the marble floor. “Neither a brand of tux nor me not shaving is going to give him a heart attack, stroke, or other fatal condition. It will rankle his feathers at best. I’ll keep his glass of scotch full, and he’ll be fine.”

His jovial expression turns serious, and he asks, “I wanted to talk to you quickly about New York. What are your thoughts?”

“I can fly out, meet the heads, and get the contracts.” With the party in full swing, I move off to the side to finish this conversation in private.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he says, “My schedule can be rearranged, and I can go with you.”

“It’s no big deal, Andrew.”

He laughs. “It’s actually a huge deal.”

“I can handle it.”

Nodding, he says, “I know you can. I also think it’s a great opportunity. One I wish I’d been given.” The noise from the crowd filters into the foyer, and Andrew looks over my shoulder. “It’s getting busy.”

I glance over my shoulder. “These parties always are.”

When I turn back, he says, “Look, Nick, I know you never dreamed of working for the company, but having you there is an asset.”

“By last name alone, but I don’t do anything any other attorney couldn’t do.”

“It’s good having you there. That’s all I wanted to say.” Shoulder to shoulder, he pats my back, then says, “Time to play nice.”

“I’ll do my best.” We start walking again, and I add, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, little brother.”

I just shake my head and laugh.

The house drips with crystals that sparkle like diamonds when reflecting the light from the chandeliers. With bars inside and out, a buffet as long as the Oscars red carpet, and a clear night as if she demanded nothing less of September, this might be the pinnacle to Cookie Christiansen’s party planning.

Trays of champagne circulate, but I’m ready for something stronger, so Andrew and I head for the bar as party guests flow in from the terrace. I order, “Rum and Coke, and a scotch from that bottle you have stored away for the guest of honor.”

With drinks in our hands, Andrew leads the way as we walk outside through the partygoers to find my parents greeting the guests as they arrive.

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