Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“My father’s a huge Bowie fan. He used to blast ‘Space Oddity’ through the house, singing along with a beer in hand, no matter what time of day it was. His vinyl collection was impressive, though most of the records were scratched.”
And most of them burned up in the fire that destroyed our home, but I don’t mention that.
“Bowie was an icon,” Steve agrees.
I continue to talk and laugh with Steve as we finish our drinks and watch the game show. Steve seems to be a good guy and has a great sense of humor. He sucks at Jeopardy!, though.
I look up at the sound of a throat clear.
Skye stands at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mom says dinner’s ready.”
Crap.
I was supposed to take drinks up for Skye and her mom. Instead, I got wrapped up in talking and laughing with Steve. Over Jeopardy!, of all things.
But damn, it felt good to laugh. I don’t laugh often enough.
Hell, I hardly laugh at all.
“Okay, sweetie,” Steve says. “Tell her we’ll be right up.” He turns to me. “I have a little wine cellar in the corner. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re used to, but let’s pick a wine for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” I say.
I’m enjoying myself. Actually enjoying myself with Skye’s father. I rise and walk over to the wine rack. It’s hardly impressive, but I’m flattered that he asked me to choose one.
I peruse the few bottles of wine in her father’s rack. I choose an Argentinian Malbec. I love fine red wine, the kind you contemplate as it sits on your tongue, drizzles down your throat. But I also enjoy a good table wine—something that doesn’t require a lot of thought and is there only to complement the meal. “This one, I think. It should go well with the pot roast your wife made, which smells amazing, by the way.”
“Agreed.” Steve pats me on the back. “After you, sweetie,” he says to Skye.
She nods and walks up the stairs to the dining room. Her dad and I follow her.
“Dinner’s all ready,” Maggie calls from the kitchen. “I’ll be right in with the meat.”
“Sounds good, Mags,” Steve says as he shows me where to sit.
Skye begins to sit down, but first I hold Skye’s chair out for her.
I’ve always done that. My mother taught me to be a gentleman when I was just a kid. But I can see her dad is suitably impressed. We wait until her mom comes in. Steve holds the chair out for Maggie, and once she’s seated, Steve and I finally sit.
Steve says a quick grace, after which at least five minutes pass in silence, but I’m oddly comfortable with Steve and Maggie. Skye takes a serving of each dish that’s offered to her, her gaze focused on the plate of store-bought bread.
Is she embarrassed?
Hell, I grew up with cheap bread on the table. Some days, it’s all we had.
I grab two slices. “This takes me back,” I say. “Sliced bread on the table every night. I grew accustomed to it.”
“Really? In Boston?” her dad says. “I thought it was a Midwestern thing.”
“It’s definitely a Boston thing, too,” I say. “Sometimes, bread was the only thing on our table.”
Skye’s eyes widen into circles. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but Skye knows how I grew up. She may not know everything, but she knows enough.
Silence again. Neither of her parents seem to know how to respond to my revelation. My cheeks warm a bit, but I don’t feel embarrassed and I don’t regret my words.
I don’t regret my roots, either. There’s a reason why I’m called the blue-collar billionaire. I came from nothing. Built my company with some seed money and a lot of hard fucking work.
I regard Skye and her parents. This—right here—is their roots.
My roots don’t exist anymore. My family no longer lives in South Boston. I can’t “go home” again to find myself like she can.
Perhaps Skye is right.
Perhaps I’m looking for something that no longer exists for me, so I came here instead.
I didn’t come here to figure Skye out. I came here to figure myself out.
Steve interrupts my thoughts. “This is a golden opportunity for me, Braden. To talk to you about the market.”
I lift my eyebrows. What market is he talking about?
“I’ve been watching the exchange lately. It’s been swinging all over the place. People get so nervous when things dip, like they’ve never seen it happen before.”
Ah. “You keep up with the stock market?” I ask. Then I regret my words. Just because he’s a farmer doesn’t mean he wouldn’t follow the market.
He seems unfazed by my comment, though.
“Yeah, I’ve been investing for a while now. It’s not that different from what I do. You’re planting seeds, watching for growth, knowing when to make your move.”
Interesting. I rub my chin. “What’s your take on it all?”