Four Day Fling

Mom’s eyebrows shot up at that, and I could tell she was impressed by that. He wasn’t even willing to risk one small glass. Because my dad’s idea of a glass of wine was not what people in a restaurant assumed to be a glass. There was a reason he always poured his own wine.

A glass of wine was just that—a glass.

If wine was meant to be half the size, the glasses would be smaller.

“So, Adam, we heard about your new sponsorship deal,” Dad said. “We’re thrilled for you. Tell us a little more.”

Adam shifted, slightly uncomfortably. “It’s the team sponsor. We agreed on a deal for a new line of sneakers and other sports equipment, mostly designed for helping children get into hockey. The value of it is mostly an investment—I don’t need the money, so we agreed the deal on the basis that ninety-five percent of the agreed figure goes into junior hockey across the United States and Canada.”

“Are the media figures accurate?” Mom asked.

“Mom!” I sputtered. “You can’t ask that!”

“He doesn’t have to answer,” she said like I was stupid. “It’s just a question.”

“It’s okay.” Adam squeezed my thigh. “Yes, the figures are accurate. My team is trying to get out about the agreement, but it’s proving important.”

“Well, I imagine the media are more concerned about why hockey’s highest-paid player needs a thirty-million-dollar sponsorship deal,” Dad said matter-of-factly.

Jesus Christ.

Kill me.

“You’re correct,” Adam said. “They are. My team is working overtime, but most people don’t want to know the truth. Even during the press conference, they were unconcerned about the real purpose.”

“Get the sponsors to say it,” I said, reaching for my wine. “They have a bigger platform than you do. Have them issue a statement to all media outlets regarding the terms. If they don’t issue the statement, the sponsors remove all advertisement from their channels. It’s not hard.”

Slowly, Adam turned to me. “You’re brilliant.”

“I have something called common sense,” I retorted. “The media likes money. Take the money, boom.” I shrugged.

“I see studying marketing taught you something,” Mom said, smiling almost proudly.

“Common sense,” I repeated, taking another drink.

Dad chuckled. “She’s right.”

“You studied marketing?” Adam asked me.

“Can I get your order?” The waitress asked, interrupting us. We all quickly rattled off our orders, even though Adam and I had barely had a chance to look at the menu.

“It was a side subject,” I said to Adam. “Not my major.”

“You never discussed majors?” Dad asked.

“It didn’t come up,” I said tightly.

“What was your major?” Adam asked.

I took another drink, and Dad grabbed the wine bottle to top me up. I shot him a grateful look.

Mom sniffed. “Art.”

“Now, Miranda, there’s nothing wrong with art.” Dad put the bottle down. “You know she’s talented.”

Adam tilted his head and looked at me. “The painting stuff. On your table. That’s yours.”

Kill me.

Someone had to.

I’d take death by fork at this point.

“You didn’t know?” Mom grasped her glass and looked at us with interest.

Seriously. Now. Stab me.

“It’s just a hobby,” I said tightly. “I paint for fun now.”

“There you go,” Dad said. “Problem solved.”

“Will you show me some?” Adam asked. “Do you have any at your place?”

Yes. Your poppy.

“A few.” I was deliberately evasive.

“You still paint?” Mom’s eyebrows shot up.

“I need to use the bathroom.” I pushed back from the table and headed the way of the bathroom.

More than anything, I needed to breathe. My feelings for Adam were going haywire, and the whole painting thing—yes, art was my damn major, but it was now just a passion—was driving me insane.

I couldn’t take this anymore.

I locked myself in the cubicle in the women’s bathroom, sat on top of the toilet seat, and took a deep breath. I took several, actually.

Why the hell had I agreed to this? Why had I done any of this? Fuck me, I was an idiot. A royal fucking idiot.

I took a few minutes to just sit and breathe and think about the hell that would ensue. I decided I was going to do a few things: I would be quiet and only speak when spoken to. And, if anyone asked, I was on my damn period.

I unlocked the cubicle door and stepped out in front of the mirror. I was still alone, so I washed my hands and dried them before stepping out.

Right into my father.

He held one finger up to his lips and pulled me farther down the hall and close to the staff-only room. “I know,” he said quietly.

“You know what?” I asked, smoothing out my dress.

“I know about you and Adam.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I know that you had no damn idea who he was until you introduced him to us.”

“I’m gonna kill Rosie,” I hissed.

Dad held his hands up. “Listen to me, Pops. I know. She told me. But I also know you like each other. In around thirty minutes, I’m going to have an emergency call from my office and your mom and I have to leave immediately. We’ll cover the bill, but—”