Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
DREW
The Calloway house looked like Christmas had taken out a loan and hired a decorator.
White brick. Black shutters. Gas lanterns by the front door.
Wreaths big enough to have their own security detail.
Every window glowing with candles. The lawn was manicured within an inch of its life, and the oak trees out front had been wrapped in white lights so precisely I knew somebody’s mother had screamed at a contractor.
Texas money.
Different from Miami money.
Miami money wanted glass, water, gates, and the illusion that rules were for other people. Texas money wanted columns, land, monograms, and for everyone driving by to understand there were heirlooms somewhere inside, even if half of them had been bought last year.
Isa sat beside me in the Suburban, quiet for the first time since we’d left the airport.
That was my first warning.
Isa Calloway handled nerves by becoming more polished. The more uncomfortable she got, the prettier her smile became. The sharper her posture. The smoother her voice.
By the time Wade pulled into the circular drive, she looked like a girl on a magazine cover.
Beautiful.
Untouchable.
Scared out of her mind.
I reached for her hand before she could open the door.
“Hey.”
She looked over.
I hated the vulnerability in her eyes. Hated more that she tried to hide it before I could do anything useful with it.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
Her mouth pulled to one side. “That’s your pep talk?”
“My pep talks are elite.”
“Your pep talks are mostly you complimenting yourself.”
“And yet they work.” I brushed my thumb over her knuckles. “They’re going to adore me.”
Her brows lifted.
“You sound very sure.”
“Baby, everybody loves me.”
“Drew.”
“What?”
She looked at the house again.
I followed her gaze.
A woman stood behind the glass beside the front door, slim and blond and backlit by the kind of warm expensive light that made everyone look better or meaner. From this distance, I couldn’t tell which.
Maybe both.
Isa drew in a breath.
“She’s going to make it weird.”
“Then we’ll make it weirder.”
That got me half a laugh.
Not enough.
So I leaned closer and dropped my voice.
“They’re going to love me because you love me.”
The words came out before I could tackle them.
Shit.
Isa went still.
So did I.
Love.
There it was again.
The word I kept letting slip— like my mouth was trying to stage an intervention before my pride could stop it.
I shrugged, because apparently I was committed to dying by arrogance.
“You know. Fake-love me. As a concept. Very persuasive.”
Isa looked down at our joined hands.
Her throat moved.
Then she pulled her smile into place and said, “Right. Fake-love.”
That should’ve been relief.
It wasn’t.
Wade opened the door before either of us could make the moment worse.
Cold air hit first, clean and sharp with the smell of winter grass and somebody’s fireplace. I stepped out, then helped Isa down because her leg got stiff after flights even when she pretended it didn’t.
She let me.
That was new too.
In August, she would have rather fallen face-first into traffic than accept help. Now her hand rested on my shoulder, light but trusting, and she looked up at me for half a second like I was allowed to steady her.
It did something brutal to my chest.
“Ready?” she asked.
“No.”
That surprised her.
Good.
I smiled anyway and took her hand.
“Let’s go impress your mother.”
The front door opened before we reached it.
“Baby girl.”
Mrs. Calloway came out like she had been waiting for a camera cue.
She was beautiful in the way women looked when money, discipline, and fear of aging formed a strategic alliance. Dark hair blown smooth. Cashmere wrap. Diamonds at her ears. Smile bright enough to cut. She swept Isa into a hug that somehow managed to look affectionate and assessed at the same time.
“My goodness,” she said, leaning back to look at her daughter. “You’re too thin. Rehab is eating you alive.”
Isa’s shoulders tightened.
I noticed.
Of course I noticed.
Then Mrs. Calloway’s eyes moved to me.
And stayed.
“Oh,” she said.
One syllable.
Too soft.
Too interested.
Isa’s hand slid into mine.
“Mom, this is Drew Travers.”
I could have kissed her for using Travers.
Not Montgomery.
I held out my hand. “Ma’am. Thank you for having me.”
Her palm slid into mine, delicate and cool, but her eyes were not cool.
They moved over my shoulders. My chest. My face. Back to my shoulders.
“Well,” she said, smiling wider. “Isa did not exaggerate.”
Isa made a small sound beside me. “Mom.”
“What?” Mrs. Calloway laughed. “I’m allowed to compliment a handsome young man.”
Compliment.
Right.
That was one word for it.
She held my hand half a second too long before letting go.
“Come in, come in. Your father is in the den pretending not to be excited.”
Isa looked at me.
I squeezed her hand once.
Her mother saw that too.
Her smile sharpened.
Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon, pine, money, and the kind of candles women bought in multiples and called “holiday atmosphere.” There were garlands on the staircase, silver bowls full of ornaments, framed family photos arranged on a console table, and stockings hanging over a fireplace that had probably never been used for actual heat.
A man stepped out of the den with a glass in one hand.
Isa’s father.
Trent Calloway, if I remembered right from the stalker-level background Isa had given me on the plane after deciding I needed to understand “the terrain.” He had the look of a man who had been handsome once and still expected people to respond accordingly.
Tall enough. Softening around the middle.
Nice watch. Expensive sweater. Face already arranged into skepticism before I took one step into the room.
His eyes flicked over me, then to Isa.
“Isabella.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
She hugged him.
He hugged her back, looking at me over her shoulder.
Not hostile exactly.
Measuring.
I knew that look.
Men did it when another man’s money made them feel crowded in their own house.
Isa stepped back. “Daddy, this is Drew.”
I held out my hand. “Sir.”
His grip was firm in the way men made grips firm when they wanted you to know they still had one.
“Drew Travers,” his brows lifted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Or is it Montgomery?”
There it was.
Not even inside five minutes.
Isa’s fingers twitched at her side.
I smiled.
“Travers-Montogmery.”
He hummed like I’d given the wrong answer to a question he had already decided was rigged. “Your father’s Richard Montgomery.”
“My mother’s name is Travers I kept it.”
“Mm.”
His eyes moved over me again, and I could see him deciding what box to put me in. Football player. Stanford. Hedge fund money. Affair son. Daughter’s boyfriend—possible threat.
Possible score.
“I’ve seen your father on Fox Business,” he said.
Mrs. Calloway laughed lightly from beside the staircase. “Richard watches all that market noise like it’s a sport.”
“Market noise is exactly what it is,” Richard said, taking a sip of his drink. “No offense.”
People always said no offense right before handing you the offense like a wrapped gift.
“None taken,” I said.
He smiled.
Didn’t believe me.
“You know what I mean,” he continued, leading us toward the den like the conversation was casual and not already a knife fight. “Hedge fund money. It’s all made-up money. Derivatives, shorts, leverage, moving numbers around until somebody else loses and your side wins.”
“Daddy,” Isa warned.
“What? I’m talking business.” He looked at me. “You can take it, can’t you?”
I could.
That was the problem.
I could take it.
I had taken worse from Richard. From Everett. From Beckett. From people who thought the Montgomery name meant I came preloaded with an apology.
But this was Isa’s father.
So I kept my voice even.
“My father’s a lot of things, sir. But he doesn’t make made-up money.”
Richard’s brows lifted.
I kept going because apparently I had inherited more of Richard’s inability to shut up than I liked admitting.
“He sees markets before other people understand where they are. He’s cold. He’s ruthless. He’s hard on people. But he’s not a crook.”
Isa looked at me.
Trent’s smile tightened.
“Wall Street boys always have a pretty explanation.”
“I’m not a Wall Street boy.”
“No?” He glanced at my shoulders. “Football, then.”
“For now.”
“Right.” His tone warmed falsely. “Until the real world starts.”
Something in me went still.
Isa stepped closer to me. “Drew’s real world is doing just fine.”
Her father looked at her.
She looked back.
For one second, I thought maybe the room would shift in my favor.
Then Mrs. Calloway came up beside me and touched my arm.
Actually touched my arm.
“Oh, Trent, stop interrogating him before dinner. The poor boy just got here.”
Poor boy.
Her fingers stayed on my bicep, her manicured nails tapped over my tan skin. I got the ‘ick’, looked down at her hand—then at Isa.
She saw it.
Her face went pale with embarrassment, then pink with anger.
Her mother didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“You must be starving,” Mrs. Calloway said to me. “Football players are always starving, aren’t they?”
I stepped back smoothly enough that her hand fell away.
“Most of the time.”
“Well, good. I told the caterer to make extra.”
Trent laughed under his breath. “We don’t usually need to feed an offensive line around here.”
“Wide receiver,” I said.
He lifted his glass. “Right. Fast one.”
I smiled because hitting a man in his own den before Christmas dinner seemed like poor form.
Isa’s hand slid into mine.
This time, I held on.
Tight.
Dinner was worse.
Not because the food was bad.
The food was excellent in the way catered food was excellent when nobody at the table had touched a pan.
Beef tenderloin, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes piped into some kind of decorative shape, salad with pears and candied pecans, rolls glossy with butter.
Not Christmas exactly. Not home. More like a hotel had been asked to interpret warmth for wealthy people.