Chapter 3
FISHER
Glancing in the mirror at my slick back hair and formal attire, I reach up and tug one errant piece down onto my forehead.
It gives the look a rebellious edge. Might sound dumb, but that small act of resistance will help me get through this gala tonight with my family.
I’m already irritated that my father wants to knock down the historic firehouse—destroying the coolest art space I’ve ever laid eyes on—but having to attend a stupid benefit in support of this idiocy is the cherry on the cake.
It’s okay. I have a plan, I remind myself as I stride out to the common area of the loft I share with three friends, my shiny formal shoes squeaking against the floor.
I rarely dress up in a full tuxedo anymore—I haven’t had any reason to since I moved to California. Penn Matthews and Noah Downsby, my teammates and best buds, stare as I do my best impression of a catwalk then turn and lift the tails of my tuxedo jacket to show off my ass.
“Dayum!” Penn says, whistling at me. “If I wasn’t in love with Hazel, I’d be tempted, man.”
Noah rolls his eyes. “You look good, Fishy. Do we finally get to meet your family?”
I straighten. I don’t want my roommates to meet the Fisher family.
Not because I’m embarrassed of them, but because I’m embarrassed of myself for being the laughingstock of my family.
My father would no doubt have some remark to make about hockey that would leave us all wondering if he complimented us or insulted us.
Sometimes I wonder how he does it…stabs you in the back without you even feeling the knife slicing through you first.
“Nah, I’m meeting them downstairs when they arrive,” I answer.
Noah opens his mouth to ask more, but then Ally—my third roommate, Noah’s girlfriend—walks into the main living area from her room. “Fisher! Whoa!” She fans her face. “You look hot.”
“Hey!” Noah says in mock offense.
She walks over and wraps her arms around his waist. “Not nearly as hot as you.”
He smiles and kisses the top of her head.
A text pings from my phone in the pocket of my tux pants and I pull it out to read the message. “Well, my ride is here, so I better go.”
My roommates hoot and holler for me to have a good time and behave myself, and I grin, flipping them off as I leave our loft. I take the elevator downstairs and walk out the front door of our building, where there’s a sleek black limo waiting for me.
The driver is waiting by the back door and opens it when he sees me. “Mr. Fisher,” he greets me as I slide onto the leather seat.
I thank him, and he shuts the door. When the door clicks shut, I glance around the limo to find more people than I expected.
My mother pats my knee as I sit down. “Archie, you look so handsome.”
“Mother, good to see you.” I place my hand over hers and squeeze. My mother isn’t big on affection so I remove my hand quickly, then nod at my brother and his wife, who are sitting on the long stretch seat across from us.
Granddad is asleep beside them, his seatbelt barely keeping him from slumping over on my sister-in-law. And next to my parents is a woman I’ve never seen before. She looks young, maybe a little younger than me. She smiles widely when I look at her.
“Archibald,” my father says as the limo starts driving.
“I’d like you to meet Miss Davidson. She’s the daughter of San Francisco’s mayor, George Davidson.
” Father smiles, but then his eyes level with mine, and there’s no humor in them.
“She kindly agreed to be your date this evening,” he adds, his eyebrow arched in a way that communicates one thing clearly: don’t screw this up.
My stomach tightens. My family might think I’m too much of a liability to be included in the family business, but apparently they’re not above pimping me out to sweeten up the mayor. And wasn’t I supposed to stop flirting my way around San Francisco?
Now, on top of attending a gala with my family, who act like I’m not good enough to be in their presence, I have to entertain this random girl?
“Hi, Archibald,” Miss Davidson says. She’s got the blonde, shiny hair of a California girl, and blue eyes framed with thick black lashes.
Her dress is a classic black strapless number with a white satin band across the top, and her earrings are sparkling Chanel logos with pearls dangling down.
She’s pretty, not my usual type. I tend to avoid the society princesses, preferring to go for girls who don’t wear designer labels, or show the subtle signs that they come from wealthy stock.
While there’s nothing wrong with girls who enjoy the finer things in life, I think something deep inside me simply longs to be with a woman who’s the opposite of my family in every way.
Someone who will actually accept me…or maybe it’s just that even my subconscious desires to rebel against my family.
“Nice to meet you,” I reply politely.
During the drive my father and brother talk shop while my mother and sister-in-law discuss some charity event they’re attending in New York next week, leaving me to make small talk with Miss Davidson.
“So, what do you do?” I ask her.
“I graduated with my bachelors in political science last May, so now I work at my father’s office.” She tilts her chin proudly, as if she didn’t get that job via nepotism.
“Ahhh, nice,” I murmur as I try to listen in on my father and brother’s conversation. The mayor’s daughter being my date tonight suggests Fisher Group has made headway with the mayor since yesterday, but I can’t hear what Father and Louis are saying over my date’s chatter.
“We watch all of your games, by the way,” she says, leaning forward. “We’re huge Lions fans. I’ve even been to several games, I always sit in the front and try to get your attention.” She bats her lashes.
“Oh, yeah. I thought I recognized you,” I lie. If I have seen her before, I don’t remember her.
She beams at me, showing off her pearly white veneers. “Next game I go to, I'll blow you a kiss for good luck.”
I huff a laugh. “Sounds good.”
“You can call me Kynsleigh, by the way.”
“Okay, Kynsleigh. And call me Fisher, please.”
Kynsleigh nods, then starts talking about the weather just as we finally pull up to the Ritz Carlton.
I take a deep breath, thankful for a momentary reprieve from small talk.
I’m usually excellent at small talk, at livening up any boring event.
But being in the presence of my family makes me feel watered down, subdued.
Like I’m performing at a third of my charismatic capacity.
When our driver opens the door, my family files out of the limo one by one.
I step out, then turn to escort my date.
I might be dull tonight, but I’m still somewhat of a gentleman.
Kynsleigh reaches for my hand, and I hear a subtle but irritated groan from my father.
It’s the groan that usually means I did something he doesn’t like.
My head snaps up to find him not looking at me but instead at a group of people holding signs. Protestors.
Our driver helps Granddad out of the limo and settles his walker in front of him. The old man follows my father’s gaze and growls. “Damn progressives think everything is a charity case. Bloody California. No one wants to work these days.” He shakes his head, rolling his walker past us.
Ignoring Granddad’s comment, I focus on the protestors and read a few of their signs, trying to figure out who they are and what they’re doing here. An older woman holds one that says MAKE HISTORY. DON’T TEAR IT DOWN. And another that says DON’T DESTROY OUR COMMUNITY.
A smile stretches across my face as I notice they’re the artists from the firehouse, and I search the crowd until my eyes land on a petite woman with straight dark hair and mesmerizing brown eyes.
The beauty I met when I visited the firehouse-turned-art space last night after my curiosity got the better of me.
My chest ached for the sadness in her eyes when she told me about the art community that had built a thriving culture inside, and how if the building was torn down, they’d have nowhere to go.
I’m so happy to see that she listened to my suggestion, that these artists have come together to protest the Fisher Group tearing down the historic former firehouse.
And little do they know, they’re creating the perfect segue into the conversation I prepared to have with my father this evening.
I even found other properties with a similar plot size and price that he could purchase instead.
The woman is shouting, “Preserve history, don’t destroy it!” She and her friends chant the statement over and over, her eyes boldly meeting every person who steps out of a limo and skulks inside the Ritz.
Finally, her eyes meet mine. Her eyebrows scrunch as she takes me in, then her face falls. She recognizes me. Of course she does…and now she thinks I’m one of the men out to destroy her community.
I take a step in her direction, but Kynsleigh grabs hold of my bicep. “Fisher, the photographer wants a picture of us,” she says.
Turning my head, flashes of cameras nearly blind me. Then Kynsleigh is tugging me along, following behind my family inside the building.
The bright lights from the cameras still dot my vision, and in each bright spot I see that artist’s disappointed, sad eyes.
Granddad scuttles right into the ballroom, likely in search of a place to sit down. And my father dives right into business mode before we can even enter the ballroom and find our table. He introduces me to a bunch of his investors and tells them I’m coming to work for Fisher Group soon.
I grind my teeth together and play nice, trying to earn as many points from him as possible for when I present him with different properties—even though he thinks I’m too incompetent to bring anything to the table.
Just when I think introductions are over, my date squeals, “Daddy!”