2. Charlie
Charlie
I toss my keys onto the counter and grab the stack of mail, thumbing through bills and junk until my fingers land on the first thick, cream-colored envelope.
The elegant script addressing me as "Mr. Charles Astor" might as well be written in bright red warning letters.
Wedding season. The invitation feels heavy in my hand.
Three more almost identical envelopes hide behind it, each one another social minefield waiting to be navigated with the perfect date on my arm.
"Shit," I mutter to Hans, my dachshund, who looks up from his bed with mild interest before deciding my curse isn't worth abandoning his nap for.
I drop the rest of the mail and carry the four wedding invitations to my living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of Seattle that still manages to impress me even after five years in this penthouse.
I open the first invitation. Daphne and Rence. June 15th. Whidbey Island.
I rub my temple where a headache is starting to form.
Rence is one of our biggest investors at Emerald City Coffee.
His father practically bankrolled my first major expansion, and this wedding won't just be a celebration—it'll be a roomful of potential business connections and family money looking to back the next big Seattle venture.
The second invitation is for Jack and Sky. San Francisco. They've rented out an entire luxury hotel because, of course they have. Jack is a buddy of mine from school and his family owns half the commercial real estate in San Francisco, and they're not subtle about flaunting it.
"Christ," I mutter, reaching for the third envelope.
Kiley and Hank. Spokane. Hank is the son of one of my distributors. I don’t know why I need to go to this but I know my dad will insist that I’m there.
The final invitation is for a wedding in La Jolla: Michael and Lillian. Michael’s family has been close with ours for as long as I can remember and his dad sits on the board for Emerald City Coffee. I definitely can’t miss this one.
Four weddings. Four opportunities to impress or disappoint my parents. Four chances to solidify business relationships worth millions. Four evenings of small talk, champagne, and judgment.
I stretch out on my leather sofa, letting the invitations fall onto my chest. Hans finally decides to join me, his nails clicking against the hardwood before he jumps up and settles against my side with a contented sigh.
"At least you're low maintenance," I tell him, scratching behind his ears. "All you need is premium dog food, some long walks and the occasional belly rub."
The women I date tend to require much more. Not that I'm complaining—I enjoy the company of intelligent, beautiful women. The problem is finding one who can navigate the complex social dynamics of Seattle's upper crust without looking like she’s trying too hard or not trying hard enough.
I could call Vanessa. We broke up three months ago, but it was civilized. She's gorgeous, sharp, and knows how to work a room. But showing up with an ex isn’t a great idea. People would talk.
There's Marissa from marketing. Quick-witted, legs for days. But bringing an employee crosses lines I'm not willing to step over, especially with my father watching.
I could pull from the rotation of women I've been casually seeing, but none of them feel right for this. These aren't just dates; they're auditions for the role of "Charlie Astor's wife" in the eyes of everyone who matters in my professional and personal circles.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Mom: Dinner tomorrow is at 7.
I text back a quick confirmation. My parents will want to know who I'm bringing. They’ll want to know if I've finally found someone "suitable." The translation of "suitable" being: someone they can brag about to their friends and who will give them grandchildren.
Feeling restless, I stand up, disturbing Hans who gives me the eye before resettling. I walk to the windows, press my forehead against the cool glass. Seattle sprawls before me, a network of lights and possibilities.
I click on some music in an attempt to relax and think about my options. Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” comes on, and I can feel myself settle just a bit.
I'm thirty-eight years old. CEO of a successful company. I own a kick-ass penthouse. My investment portfolio would make most financial advisors weep with joy. By any objective measure, I'm a catch.
So why does the thought of finding a wedding date make my stomach twist into knots?
Because it's not about finding a date—it's about finding the right date.
Someone who makes me look like I've got my personal life as together as my professional one.
Someone who can hold her own with my mother's subtle interrogations and my father's assessing stares. Someone who doesn’t get drunk and vomit all over the bride or hit on the groom.
Unfortunately, those last two things have happened in the past.
I turn away from the window and walk to the bar cart in the corner of my living room. I pour two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler. The first sip burns, but the second one soothes.
My reflection in the mirror behind the bar looks confident, unconcerned. My hair is still damp from my post-gym shower, my jawline still defined despite approaching forty.
I carry my scotch back to the sofa and pick up the invitations again, fanning them out like playing cards.
"So who's it going to be, Hans?" I ask, looking down at my dog, who responds by rolling onto his back, exposing his furry belly. "Yeah, that's what I thought—no opinion."
I finish my scotch and set the glass aside. Tomorrow night, my parents will ask about my plans for these weddings. They'll ask who I'm bringing, and they'll have opinions about my answer, whatever it is.
I need someone perfect. Someone who fits in this world without trying too hard. Someone who makes me look good without overshadowing me. Someone my parents already approve of.
I just have no idea who that someone is.
My parents' house sits on a hill overlooking Lake Washington, a mix of glass and cedar that manages to be both imposing and tasteful. I park my Audi next to my mother's Mercedes and glance at myself in the rearview mirror before getting out.
The front door opens before I can knock. My mother stands there in an ice blue silk blouse, her blonde hair swept into an elegant twist that defies her sixty-two years. She's holding a martini glass with three olives—she always insists on three—and her smile is genuine.
"Charlie, darling." She kisses the air beside my cheek, her perfume wafting around me. "Right on time. Your father's in his study, finishing up a call."
Of course he is. Bill Astor has been "just finishing up a call" for the last forty years.
"How are you, Mom?" I ask, following her into the house. The interior is all clean lines and curated art pieces, a gallery of good taste with the warmth of a museum.
"Wonderful. Busy with the foundation gala next month. And you? You look tired." She gives me an appraising look.
"I'm fine. Just closing that deal with the suppliers in Colombia. It's been intense."
She nods, but I can tell she's not really interested in the details of coffee bean procurement. We reach the kitchen—all marble and stainless steel—where she refreshes her martini and makes one for me without asking.
"Your father ran into Stuart Hunter yesterday at the golf course," she says casually, sliding the glass toward me. "He mentioned you two had quite a night at the poker game last week."
"Stuart exaggerates. I took him for a few hundred dollars, that's all."
She hums noncommittally and busies herself checking something in the oven. I take a sip of the martini—perfect, like everything else in this house.
"Charles." My father's voice carries from the doorway. He's wearing a gray cashmere sweater over a collared shirt. "Good to see you."
We shake hands—we always shake hands—and his grip is firm. At sixty-five, he's still in better shape than most men half his age, a fact he never lets me forget during our occasional rounds of golf.
"Bill," I nod, the childhood habit of calling him "Dad" long replaced by the more professional address he prefers.
"Dinner's ready," my mother announces, saving us from awkward small talk. "I've made your favorite, Charlie—Beef Wellington."
She hasn't though. My mother doesn’t actually cook. They have a chef for that. Always have. But she likes to pretend she cooks. Sometimes, she even wears an apron. It’s an ongoing joke between Jane and me.
We move to the dining room where the table is set with fine china, crystal glasses and sterling silver. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, already breathing, sits center stage.
"I hear the McAllister deal is coming along," my father says as we take our seats. He pours a glass of the wine, examining the color in the light before giving it a slight nod of approval.
"We're close. Their distribution network in the Pacific Northwest complements ours perfectly." I place my napkin in my lap and cut into the beef, perfectly medium-rare. "If it goes through, we'll be in a position to expand into Idaho and Montana by next spring."
My father nods, but I can see he's not as excited as I am. In his world, deals aren't successes until the ink is dry and the profits are flowing.
"That's wonderful, honey," my mother interjects. "So, we received the invitation to Daphne and Rence's wedding. Such a lovely venue they've chosen on Whidbey Island."
And here we go.
"Yes, I got mine yesterday," I say, taking a larger sip of wine than necessary. "Along with three others."
"Four weddings this summer," my mother says with barely contained excitement. "The social event of the season, each one. Who are you planning to bring?"
I push a roasted carrot around my plate. "I'm carefully considering my options."
My father looks up from his meal, his gaze sharp. "Not that marketing girl you were seeing, right? Marissa?"