“Silas.” My father clears his throat. “We’d love to have you for dinner one night. Our chef makes prime rib that pairs flawlessly with a bottle of scotch. Are you a single-malt man?” “I drink bourbon.” The muscles in his jaw twitch, voice smooth like liquid night. “And I don’t eat meat.” I try to hide the shock on my face but find it difficult as I look up at him. The bourbon, I knew about. He’s got a cart in his office, stocked with ice nightly, but the meat? “Since when?” I ask. Silas looks down, the harshness in his eyes softening, and like it’s no big deal, like it’s the simplest thing in
...more
