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percent, and if it drops any more, we’re going to lose South American
revenue to the Saudis.”
“True, true.” Dad took a sip and pressed his lips between his teeth to
swallow.
“It’ll be handled,” Byron said. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. Just take
care of Mom.”
Asshole. Byron cared about my parents as much as I did, but he was
still being a brown-nosing, playacting asshole.
“We’ll handle it,” I added. “And whatever else.”
“How are you feeling about some downtime?” Dad asked me.
“Downtime?”
“Space.” Dad placed his drink on the table between us and leaned
forward, mirroring my posture. “Outside. Life. People.”
“Fine.”
“There’s a rumor making the rounds.” Dad stood, plucking up all three
glasses in his fingers. “About you.” He pointed at me and went to the bar.
“That he’s a party animal?” Byron joked.
“Shut up,” I said.
“Come on,” my brother said. “You wouldn’t be Logan Crowne if you
had a life.”
Clink clink. Ice dropped into glasses.
“Dad, really. It’s been great. I appreciate it. Going out with friends is all
it is. Whatever the rumor is, it’s either bullshit or not anything you have to
worry about.”
Our father stood over us, holding two glasses in his palm. I took the one
with ice and sat back as indolently as my brother.
“Apparently”—Dad lowered himself onto his seat—“you were in Harry
Winston buying an engagement ring.”
Someone had let the cat out of the bag. It was dead, but it was out, and I
had to dispose of the body one of two ways.
Deny it, and I could forget about retaking my position by getting
married.
Confirm it, and getting a fiancée was do or die.
“Really?” Byron exclaimed, clapping me on the back. “Who’s the poor
girl?”
Do or die. I didn’t give up that easily. Crowne was mine.
“No one you know. And I haven’t asked her yet.”