Page 10 of Buckin' Around

“Excuse me. Sorry...” I press my fingertip to the red button, and the inside chime starts up.

“They’re going to love you. I can’t wait til Mom hears your accent. But don’t let Daddy pummel you with Northern Ireland questions. Or any of Ireland, for that matter. It’s been on his bucket list since Mom and him got marri?—”

The door swings open and Bernadette answers, her maid uniform pristine even at eight in the evening, her smile plastered on her face as usual. “Good evening. Your parents are waiting in the sitting room. Please come in.”

Riley flicks Stace a look I’m sure my sister didn’t even catch. Of the two of us, Stace has never been bothered that we live significantly better than most people. The oversized mansion, the staff, the money that never dries up... You’d think it would be a guy’s dream.

Not this guy.

Unless you’re career driven or willing to sell your soul to fit in with the ‘it’ crowd in finance or whatever industry your parents made bank in, you’re the same as everyone else.

Only with a healthier checking account.

I’ll take decent people over portfolios any day. And therein lies the source of my parents’ greatest disappointment.

We cross the marble-tiled floor and take a right through the first open set of double doors. Dad sits on the sofa, his ankle resting on his knee, whiskey tumbler in one hand, newspaper in the other. Some things never change. Mom is behind the bar cart, pouring herself a martini on the rocks. The wainscoted walls, marbled tile, and grand, oversized windows with drapes that hug the floor scream money.

My skin itches every damn time I step into this room.

“Honey! Oh, and Spencer, you’re late,” Mom says, arms up, martini in one hand, and a wide smile on her pretty face. Her fair complexion and blonde hair are where I got my features from.

Stace, who is making a beeline for the bar cart with her sidekick, unfortunately took after the old man in the looks department. His ginger hair has mostly turned to grey, which he blames wholly and solely on his oldest child.

Me.

“Hey, Mom. How was your week?”

She sips her martini and puts it down on the end table by the sofa before holding me at arm’s length. “Mine was fine.” She eyes me over. “No broken bones?” Her perfectly manicured brows fall, as does her gaze, over my limbs, checking each one in turn. The frown on her face grows as she does so.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m still on the circuit. In fact, we started the year’s season last weekend.”

Her grip falls from my arms as she sighs. “Spencer. Why can’t you be happy with horses? They’re significantly safer. Not to mention the company you keep on that circuit. So unsavory.”

Riley looks up from the bar cart, her eyes connecting with mine briefly before she dips her head while Stace chats away at her.

I return my focus to Mom. “Drop it, okay? Let’s enjoy the evening.”

The newspaper hits the sofa cushion, and Mom startles before turning back on her two-inch heels.

“Noel, is that absolutely necessary?” Mom’s face pinches. “We have a guest.”

Dad holds Mom’s glare with his own, tracking her movements as she crosses the living room and takes a seat on the edge of the sofa opposite him, her one familial task for the week—asking me how I am—done.

Stacey and Riley finish up at the bar cart, and Dad shifts his attention to my sister, a genuine smile on his face for his precious daughter and her tagalong.

“How was your week, Stacey?” Dad’s face has hardened. Stace takes a long draw of her drink as she hands a glass to Riley.

“Productive, but the same.”

Dad grabs the paper and flips it up, going back to ignoring the entire room of people. Bernadette appears at the threshold of the double living room doors. “Dinner is served, ma’am.” Herwords are directed at my mother, but her gaze, tight as her tensed jaw, is homed in on my father.

“About damn time,” he grumbles, tossing the paper.

He plucks up his whiskey and leads the way to the dining room, the rest of us following in his angry wake.

May the mind games begin.

The clinking of cutlery is the only sound that moves around the gilded dining room that is barely used once a week.