Luckily, Bishop’s right hand is free and he takes my dad’s for a quick shake.
“Well, come on in,” he says as he moves backward into the foyer. Bishop releases me, only to bring a hand to my lower back so I can precede him in. I know my father will appreciate the good manners.
Dad leads us into the living room, where he has a small service bar set up in an alcove that separates it from the kitchen. He takes our orders, mixes drinks, and hands them to us. He and Bishop choose straight bourbon and I opt for a glass of white wine.
“Something smells good,” Bishop observes as he glances into the kitchen.
“Chicken marsala,” my father replies.
“Dad loves to cook,” I provide, internally cringing over the squeak in my voice that indicates my nerves are still stretched tight. “In fact, why don’t you two sit down at the table and I’ll serve?”
I manage to set my wineglass on the counter without spilling it from my shaky hand. As I pull plates from the cupboard, I manage not to drop those when my father says to Bishop, “Strange how the two of you met in a city of millions.”
My eyes snap briefly to Bishop, who doesn’t even look bothered. He merely says, “Small world, right?”
I set the plates down next to the stove, where my dad has the pan of chicken marsala and another of French green beans. I go for a light laugh, but it sounds strained. “Daddy doesn’t understand how popular Club Zero is in the city. If he did, he wouldn’t think twice about us stumbling upon each other there.”
Bishop nods and rolls with it. “Well, it was hard not to notice you in that crowd.”
That would be so sweet if it were true and not said under duress. I quickly fill up two plates, grab some utensils, and bring them to the table. Just as I’m setting the food down in front of my dad and Bishop, who are sitting adjacent to each other, my dad says, “I don’t get it. You two don’t look like you’re in love. And I know what love looks like. I had it for thirty-three years.”
Right then, my heart crumples in on itself. My dad’s voice is low and morose, and he didn’t say that because he’s calling bullshit on us. He said that because he does know love, and I suppose what we’ve built as a quickly developed relationship looks nothing like what he had with my mother, whom he still misses greatly.
Bishop looks up at me and I blink to dispel the tiny bit of wetness that had started to form. Clearing my throat, I put a hand on my dad’s shoulder and squeeze. “It’s still new for us, Daddy, and it’s a little awkward, since you’re just finding out. But you’re going to have to accept it. Bishop is important to me.”
Man, that lie tasted ashy on my tongue. Bishop is nothing but a one-night stand to me at this point in our short relationship. After this is all over, I’m going to be lucky if he doesn’t hate me once we part ways.
Apparently things must not be going all that badly, because Bishop seals his fate as a critical part of this deception when he says, “Your daughter is important to me too, Mr. Perron. I’m sure in time you’ll see it.”
My dad’s eyes bore into Bishop’s. The air in my lungs seems to freeze.
Picking up his utensils, my dad starts cutting into his chicken. “I look forward to seeing it.”
I have to force myself to let the air out slowly and silently as I turn back to the kitchen to get my plate. There’s no noise but the clinking of forks on plates while I do so, and by the time I sit down, my dad’s waving his fork in the air at Bishop. “You know none of this means I’ll go easier on you in practice. In fact, I’ll probably be tougher on you.”
Bishop listens while chewing his food, and after swallowing, he gives an affirming nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything different, sir.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Now my dad was going to bust Bishop’s ass harder at practice, and that’s all on my shoulders as well.
I’m in the midst of cutting my first piece of chicken when my dad says, “Brooke…when are you two thinking about setting the wedding date? Because it would be best if it could wait until next summer. You know…after the season is done.”
I look up to him slowly and give a tremulous smile. “Of course. Like I told you this afternoon, we’re not in a hurry.”
“Well, there’s a lot to do between now and then, even if you set it for next summer,” my dad continues as he attacks his chicken again. I turn to Bishop and his return stare is just as befuddled as mine.