Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Did you know Reagan is an entrepreneur?” Though I tried to stay calm, I couldn’t keep a thread of anger from my voice. “He has a lucrative social media business with over a million followers across multiple platforms. Lifestyle brands throw sponsorship opportunities at him left and right—”
“Of course I know about his social media thing.” Trent looked more confused than ever, like he could hear my anger but couldn’t understand the reason for it. “I just don’t think receiving free sweatpants with a giant logo on the ass qualifies him as an ‘entrepreneur.’ Mainstream media would love for you to believe a social media guru can make grown-up money, but I’ve seen the truth firsthand. Reagan receives packages of free stuff all day long, but it’s not cold hard cash. I know they’re throwing him a few bucks here and there—he made quite a scene about paying his own way when his mother expressed concerns about him moving to New York—but in a few months, he’ll be bored of ‘adulting,’ as the kids say, and tired of commuting to work by bicycle from whatever Hoboken hovel he’s rented. Then he’ll come home to Honeybridge and lay in bed staring at the ceiling until Patricia offers to send him off to the Amalfi Coast. Trust me, Thatcher, I’ve seen this before.” He stared down his nose at me and repeated his words from earlier. “I know my son.”
But he didn’t. He didn’t at all.
“Trent.” I leaned forward. “Your son probably makes half a million dollars a year posting on social media.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized it wasn’t my place to say them. For all I knew, Reagan was purposely keeping his parents in the dark. But Christ, it felt like Trent was determined to hang on to the false narrative where his son was an incapable, dependent slacker, and I needed him to see how wrong he was.
He barked out a laugh. “If that were true, Thatcher, why would he bother working for you?”
Because he wants his parents to take him seriously, you idiot. Because part of him believes he can’t take himself seriously unless he has a traditional job.
But I didn’t say that out loud. We were expected at the dinner table in less than ten minutes. It wouldn’t do to start a fight with my host, especially when he might start to wonder why I was so passionate about defending his child.
A moment later, Trent set his glass down and gave me a campaign smile—wry, friendly, and insincere. “Have to say, I really hope you’re right and that he’s started thinking about things more seriously. Once we’re in the governor’s mansion, the boy’s not going to be any use to me at all, and you’d better believe I’ll be a whole lot less likely to keep paying his way. Time he stood on his own two feet.” He nodded to himself. Then, he added with no trace of irony, “But Patricia and I appreciate you giving him time off to help the family out.”
I stepped closer and reached out to slam my crystal glass on the table between us when I was interrupted by a soft knock and the creak of a door opening behind me.
“Dad? Mother would like you to come immediately and lead us in to dinner. I think—oh.” Reagan paused when he saw me, then flushed from his carefully styled hairline to the collar of his shirt. He straightened. “Sorry to interrupt. Bunty Lamb has been telling Layla how beneficial climate change will be for Bunty’s tan lines, and while Flynn has been holding back admirably from correcting her, he’s turning an unhealthy purplish sort of color. JT flat-out refused to ‘control your boyfriend if you absolutely must have him here, Jonathan’ and threatened to leave if Mother said a single critical word. I think she hopes that getting everyone in their assigned seats will prevent Firecracker from… well, exploding.”
Trent stood and moved around the desk toward the door. “She’s right, no doubt. I don’t know why people get so upset over trivialities when we’re having a nice dinner.”
“Yes, it’s in extremely poor taste to worry about the fate of the planet when Rosalia’s made pavlova for dessert,” Reagan agreed blandly.
Trent nodded. “Well, let’s go, then. Oh.” He paused and clapped Reagan on the shoulder. “Mr. Pennington was just telling me he has no complaints about your job performance thus far. Keep up the good work.”
Reagan’s ears turned red, and his jaw tightened. “Yes, sir. I’d hate for Mr. Pennington to be dissatisfied.”
I sucked in a slow, silent breath. I needed to say something, to correct Trent’s statement, but I couldn’t. Emotions bubbled just beneath my skin—anger from my conversation with Trent, annoyance from Reagan avoiding me, hurt from our pointless argument last night, helpless frustration from every fucking minute of the last two days when I hadn’t been able to take care of Reagan with my hands and mouth and cock—and if I said a single word, all of it might erupt like a volcano. Instead, I silently willed Reagan to look up, to let me reassure him without words.