“Call me Tom, please,” I said.
Richard rose more slowly, extending his hand with a handshake calibrated for exactly the right amount of firmness — the kind you learn in business school, designed to establish dominance without seeming to try. “Richard Bradford. Welcome to Brookshire.”
“Thank you for the invitation.”
Patricia’s greeting was cooler, a brief, dry handshake, her eyes moving over my outfit with a disappointment she didn’t bother to fully conceal. “Thomas. How lovely. Please, sit.”
Christopher didn’t bother standing at all. He simply nodded. “Chris.”
I sat beside Michael, across from Richard. A waiter appeared almost instantly with menus bound in soft leather.
“The dover sole is exceptional today,” Richard said, not quite looking at me. “Though I suppose, Tom, what do you usually order when you dine out?”
“Depends on the place,” I said easily. “Can’t go wrong with a good burger.”
Patricia’s smile went tight at the corners. “How practical.”
