Page 17 of Role Play
“No.Put your hand down. It’s phenomenal. I never eat this well. I’mexperiencingmy food.” I glance at his clean plate which looks like a Labrador licked it clean. There’s not even a drop of Béarnaise sauce left. Dad took down his bacon-wrapped filet mignon in two bites, right before grouching about the tiny portions here.
He lifts one bushy, salt-and-pepper brow. “What do you mean you never eat this well?”
“I mean my idea of fancy is topping ramen with a little chili crunch. Add some day-old rotisserie chicken, and voilà.” I sprinkle my fingers over my plate. “Culinary masterpiece.”
“You’re still eating ramen noodles for dinner, Sora?”
“Yes. My life is regal,” I deadpan.
Issuing a raspy sigh, Dad leans back into the tufted-fabric dining chair. With his head lowered and eyes lifted, he matches my gaze, but doesn’t return my smile. “You need money.”
Obviously.But I shake my head like it’s preposterous. “I was being glib. I’m fine.”
“Ramen is for broke college kids trying to figure out their lives.”
“Take out the college part…” I shrug innocently. “Pretty accurate.”
“How much?” he asks so seriously.
I reach across the table for him, but Dad’s too far away. Instead, I trill my fingers against the surface, the thick table linen turning my taps into muted thuds. “I don’t want your money.” I blink at him a few times. “Well, except to pay for dinner, because I absolutely can’t afford this meal. Did you know the cocktail I ordered cost thirty dollars?”
His lips twitch into an almost-smile, but it’s clear he’s distracted. “It’s your birthday dinner. Order everything you like.”
“Then I’m ordering more fish to go.”
His grin quickly widens, then disappears just as fast. “You still have the same bank account? I’ll set up a wire.”
Forcing sincerity into my expression, I shake my head slowly. “Jokes aside,no.Thank you, but no. I don’t want to bethatkid with my hand out. I’m still in my ramen-eating phase but it won’t be forever. One day, I’m going to take you to a restaurantlike this and cover the bill with the money I earned, not the money Daddy gave me.”
There’s a flash of pride on his face. It’s almost a sweet daddy-daughter moment until he opens his mouth again. “Why wait? It’s all yours when I die anyway. Start the celebration early.”
My eyes roll so hard I swear they nudge my frontal lobe. “Perhaps shocking, but I’m not really looking forward to your death just to collect on an inheritance check.”
“You’ll never cut it in Hollywood with that attitude, kid.”
“Well, if my writing career continues to tank, I will ditch my independent attitude and seriously consider nepo baby as my next profession.”
His guffaw cuts through the low murmur of voices in the restaurant, attracting the attention of nearby diners. I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if someone will recognize him. There’s been a time or two when shameless, diehard J.P. Cooper fans have crashed our private meals. But not tonight. The diners turn their attention back to their own plates.
Weaving my hands together in my lap, I pray my dad asks me about my writing. I just gave him the bait.My career is tanking.He’s quick to offer cash, but money isn’t the most valuable thing he can offer me. When it comes to advice, he’s so damn stingy. It’s like if Michael Jordan refused to show his kid how to shoot hoops. Senseless.
Leaning down, I reach into my purse to produce Dane Spellman’s information. “Before I forget, I have something for you.” With one finger, I slide the business card to Dad’s side of the table.
“What’s this?”
“Have you heard of Spellman Literary? I met the owner today. He asked me to pass this along to you.” I tap the card where Dane scribbled in his personal number. “That’s his cell. He said to call him day or night.”
Dad picks up the business card and rips it in two. “Well, he can hold his breath waiting, then suffocate.”
“With all that charm, you must have to beat the ladies away with a stick.”
“Why do you have this?” he asks, ignoring my clever jab. “What the hell are you doing meeting with sleazy agents?”
Oh, geez. Here we go. “Why does he have to be sleazy?”
“Is he an agent?”
“Yes.”
