He glanced over at me then, really looked at me, in a way that made my chest ache a little.
“That’s not what I meant. I just want this to go well. Jessica means everything to me.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Then let’s go meet the Bradfords.”
The host station just inside the entrance was manned by a young man in a crisp white shirt and navy blazer, his part precise enough to have been drawn with a ruler. His eyes moved from my boots up to my jacket, and I caught the flicker of a micro-expression — disdain, quickly smoothed over — before his professional mask slid back into place.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Name for the reservation?”
“Bradford party,” Michael said. “We’re guests of Richard Bradford.”
The host’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant, warming by several degrees. “Of course, Mr. Warren. Right this way.”
We followed him through the main dining room, past tables of impeccably dressed patrons working their way through lobster bisque and oysters Rockefeller. I felt the weight of glances as we passed, the subtle pause in conversation, the way heads tilted just slightly to track us. An old man in work boots and a flannel shirt didn’t belong here, and everyone in that room seemed to know it immediately, the way you know a wrong note in a piece of music you’ve heard a hundred times.
