Chapter 9
brOOKLYN
I wasn’t a big astrology person, but the planets had to be misaligned. There’d been too many strange occurrences for any other explanation.
First, there was the bet with Vincent, which set off alarm bells the minute he suggested it.
I loved a good challenge, but competing with him to see who could seduce the other first was a bad idea on every level.
One, it would force us to interact more, as if living together weren’t enough.
Two, winning the bet would mean violating Blackcastle’s anti-fraternization policy, though I supposed no one would know if we didn’t tell them.
And finally, three, as much as I hated to admit it, I did find him infuriatingly attractive.
I thought living with him would kill his appeal because most guys were messy, dirty, and gross.
He was the opposite. He cleaned, he cooked (sort of), and he folded laundry flawlessly.
I kept running into him on his way out of the bathroom, and he used the world’s best-smelling aftershave. It was infuriating.
None of that was enough to make me kiss him. Not even close. But it was enough to make me uneasy.
The unease was exacerbated by our strangely enjoyable Bake Off night.
I’d gone into the living room hoping to win our bet early.
He was a guy, and guys couldn’t resist a girl in a football shirt.
That was a universal fact. But instead of getting him to kiss me, I’d started…
having fun. Talking to him, snuggling against him (albeit reluctantly), and having a real conversation without our usual insults and snark.
It was the standout night of my week, so that was unsettling.
Now, my dad and I were at our long-postponed dinner, and he didn’t look right.
Correction: he looked nice, which wasn’t right. The planets were definitely out of sync.
Frank Armstrong famously lived in athletic wear. He once made national news for showing up to a black-tie fundraiser in slippers, but here he was, dressed up in a suit and tie.
“Who invented this thing?” he grumbled. He tugged on his tie, his expression pained. “How can anyone eat comfortably when they’re slowly choking to death?”
I stifled a laugh. “You don’t have to wear a tie, Dad. A jacket is fine.”
“I thought that was part of the dress code.”
“It’s not.”
“Every other guy in here is wearing a tie.”
“You can wear one if you want, but it’s optional.” I pulled up the restaurant’s website on my phone and showed him the text. “See?”
“Oh, thank God.” The tie was gone in an instant. “I don’t get the whole dress code thing. I know this is supposed to be fancy, but I’ve been to a few restaurants like this. None of their chicken is better than Nando’s.”
“At least it’s quieter. We can actually hear ourselves talk,” I said lightly.
With its linen tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, and embossed leather-bound menus, the restaurant was definitely fancier than what either of us was accustomed to.
Despite his considerable salary as one of the Premier League’s top managers, my dad was extremely lowkey. Maybe I should’ve picked a more casual spot for dinner, but I’d wanted to do something special.
When I packed up everything and left California after finishing grad school and getting accepted into Blackcastle’s internship program, I had no idea how the move would go. I just knew I couldn’t stay in San Diego and watch my mom fuss over her new family anymore.
I also figured it was time to get to know my father better.
We hadn’t lived in the same city since I was two, when my parents divorced and my mom moved out of the UK, vowing to never return.
I’d spent a handful of summers with my dad as a teen, but he mostly worked, and I mostly ran around London, flirting with boys and eating my weight in scones.
We’d never truly bonded, though that hadn’t stopped him from being overly protective whenever he stepped away from the pitch long enough to realize I was of dating age.
Our dynamic hadn’t changed much this time around, but I was determined to make an effort. My mom was a lost cause, but if I could salvage my relationship with one parent, it would be worth it.
My dad cleared his throat. “Sorry, Brooke,” he said, apparently remembering the restaurant was my idea. He was the only person in the world who called me Brooke. “I didn’t mean to complain. I’m sure the food will be great.”
“It’s okay. The reviews are good, so hopefully they weren’t lying.”
I took a sip of water. He laid his napkin across his lap.
I racked my brain for a fun conversation topic, but I couldn’t think of anything except football and The Great British Bake Off, which my dad most certainly didn’t watch.
Why hadn’t I made a list of things we could talk about beforehand? So stupid.
Our silence stretched into painful territory until a server came to take our orders. After he left, quiet descended again, heavier than ever.
“So—”
“How—”
We spoke at the same time.
“You go first,” I said right as he insisted, “You go first.”
Another beat of silence.
“How did your meeting with Vuk go?” I finally asked. I didn’t know much about the club’s mysterious owner, but he kind of terrified me. He looked like he could snap you in half with his bare hands if you so much as breathed the wrong way.
“Good,” my dad said. “He’s happy with the team’s performance.”
“That’s good.”
“Yep, very good.”
This was almost worse than silence. If we kept this up, and I had a nickel for every time we uttered the word “good” during dinner, I could fund the ISNA award myself.
Our painful small talk continued past our appetizers and into our mains. The weather, the traffic, our plans for the weekend—every topic felt forced and stilted. It was a complete one-eighty from my easy conversations with Vincent.
I wish he were here. The thought came to me with sudden force.
I’d never craved Vincent’s company before.
We worked together and had a lot of mutual friends, so he was always just…
there. But no matter how much he provoked me or how often we argued, we never had a problem talking to each other.
I could say anything or nothing to him and feel comfortable about it.
If he were here, he’d find a way to engage the table in a debate about volcanoes or something, and I wouldn’t want to crawl out of my skin from the awkwardness.
I cut into my salmon with more force than necessary. Forget misaligned planets. I must’ve entered another dimension entirely if I was missing Vincent DuBois, of all people.
“Have you talked to your mother lately?”
My knife slipped and hit the porcelain plate with a clang. A nearby couple stopped eating to side-eye me, but I was too busy gaping at my dad to notice.
Rule number one in the dysfunctional relationship I had with my parents: don’t talk about the other person in front of them. Ever.
The last time I violated this rule, I’d subjected myself to an hour-long tirade about “narcissism disguised as enlightenment” (age sixteen, my father’s words), so him willingly bringing her up over dinner portended nothing short of the apocalypse.
I checked our surroundings for fire and brimstone before responding. “We’ve messaged a few times.” Once in the past month. “Why?”
My dad took a bite of his steak, chewed, and swallowed before he said, somewhat cautiously, “I heard she’s pregnant again.”
I gave up on the salmon and set my knife aside. “She is.”
I wasn’t sure where my dad was going with this. He didn’t know my mom’s new family was one of the reasons I’d moved to London. He thought I’d moved because I wanted to work for the Premier League, which was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
“How are you, uh, holding up?” he asked.
Maybe he was more observant than I gave him credit for.
“I’m happy for her,” I lied. “I already have one half-sibling. What’s one more?”
Don’t get me wrong, I really did like my half-brother. Charlie was two years old and the cutest, happiest baby in the world. If I could hang out with him sans my mom, I would do so in a heartbeat.
But that was the thing. It was impossible to separate them.
Obviously, they shouldn’t be separated considering how young he was, but my mom hadn’t any qualms about leaving me with a neighbor or random babysitter when I was that age.
She’d never looked happier to be a parent than she did now, and I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been her trial run.
A thirty-day-free membership she’d accidentally signed up for and forgotten about for the past twenty-seven years.
None of this was Charlie’s fault, but I couldn’t help the way I felt either.
“How are you taking it?” I asked my dad.
He flicked his eyebrows up like that was the world’s stupidest question, but he didn’t want me to feel bad about it. “Your mother and I have been divorced for over two decades. She could give birth to a two-headed llama, and I wouldn’t care.”
Some of my tension eased, and I snorted out a laugh. “How did you know she’s pregnant?”
“We still have some mutual friends. I didn’t ask. They brought it up first.”
“Ah.” I had no illusions about my parents “coming to their senses” and getting back together.
I wouldn’t support that anyway; they were the worst fit for each other.
They only married because they’d had a brief fling when my mom lived in the UK.
She got pregnant with me, they tied the knot because that was what they were supposed to do, and after what my mom repeatedly told me were the “worst, most stressful years” of her life, they split in a legal battle that made World War II look civil.
But while my mom had moved on, dating a string of men who wove in and out of my childhood and teenage years until she settled down, my dad never remarried. He was too obsessed with work.
“Have you thought about dating again?” I asked.
He was only in his late forties. There were plenty of women his age who would be thrilled to go out with him, and I sincerely thought he needed something other than work to keep him occupied.
“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “Managing the team is already a handful. I don’t need the stress of a relationship on top of it.”
“A good relationship is worth the occasional stress.”
“In your twenties, yes. When you’re my age? Not worth it.” My dad cleared his throat. “What about you? Have you, uh, met any nice blokes here?”
“‘Nice blokes’? That’s such a dad thing to say,” I teased.
“I should hope so, since I am your dad.”
“Valid, and no, I haven’t met anyone serious. I’ve been on a few dates, but they haven’t gone anywhere.”
I thought London would be a goldmine of British-accented hotties in perfectly tailored suits. While they did exist in certain pockets of the city, I’d neglected to factor in personality, work schedules, and general emotional availability when daydreaming about my great romance abroad.
My dad’s brows pinched. “You have? With who? Why didn’t I know about them?”
“Because they weren’t important.” I feigned exasperation, but secretly, a warm glow spread through my stomach.
I didn’t want him micromanaging my life, but this was the closest we’d ever gotten to a normal father-daughter conversation.
“I promise, if I go on more than…five dates with a guy, I’ll let you know. ”
“Five?” he sputtered. “That’s too many. A second date is worth a heads-up.”
“No way. First dates are for putting out feelers. Second dates are for confirming that the first date wasn’t a fluke.”
“What about the third, fourth, and fifth?”
“Third is the first true test for a potential relationship. Fourth is when it’s getting kind of serious. Fifth is when it gets serious enough for me to alert friends and family.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It’s just the way people do it these days, Dad.”
His frown deepened. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But it better not be one of those whirlwind things where you’re married by the third date.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t worry. I have no plans to marry anyone by any date at this time.”
Theoretically, I liked the idea of marriage. Practically, I was nowhere near ready for that type of commitment.
“Good. You’re young. You should be building your career and having fun.
But not too much fun,” he added quickly.
“I trust your judgment. Just don’t get involved with any footballers.
” He pointed his fork at me. “They’re bad news.
Great work ethic, terrible monogamists. Trust me.
I hear their changing room chatter. I used to be part of the changing room chatter. ”
“Dad, please. I wouldn’t date a footballer if they offered me a million pounds and a Lamborghini.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied.
We returned to our meals, but my mention of a Lamborghini made me think of Vincent again. He drove a Lambo—midnight blue, fully customized, retailed for three hundred grand without the customizations.
He wasn’t obsessed with sports vehicles the way Asher was, but he’d gone all out for the one he did own.
I wasn’t going to lie. It was a sexy car.
I snuck a peek at my phone. No new messages—not that I’d been expecting any. I certainly hadn’t been expecting one from Vincent.
What was he up to anyway? He’d been in the shower when I left, but it was Friday night. Famous footballers didn’t stay home and watch TV on Friday nights. He was either out with his friends or…on a date.
Our bet didn’t exclude us from dating other people. It would be weird to keep it going if either of us entered an exclusive relationship, but non-exclusive flings? Not prohibited under the rules.
A piece of fish stuck in my throat. I coughed and quickly gulped down the rest of my water, but I drank it too fast and started coughing even more.
My dad’s brow creased. “Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I gasped. My eyes watered, but the coughing eventually subsided, and our server stopped hovering nearby like he was afraid I’d choke to death on his watch.
It was fine. I was fine.
I didn’t care where Vincent was. He could do whatever he wanted, and so could I.