Beg You to Trust Me (Lindon U #2)(65)
“There’s nothing to say.” Her tone is clipped as she grips the menu tighter.
“Sky—”
“Danny, stop.” Her eyes flick up to mine, the color pleading. “There’s nothing anybody can do.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
She’s silent.
“I’m trying to look out for you. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”
Her lips curl down. “I know.” She sighs heavily, dropping the menu down. “I know you are. I’m sorry. I just don’t think anybody can say anything that would help. But I’ll think about it.”
The timid smile she gives me makes me drop it.
“Tell me about your sisters.”
Her blue eyes widen a fraction as the waitress comes back with our drinks and collects our food order. I don’t think Skylar paid much attention to whatever she asked for before passing the menu over to the woman’s extended hand.
As soon as it’s just us, Sky tells me all about her family. How her sister Serena is in grad school to become a psychologist. She gets irritated with her whenever she psychoanalyzes everyone. She tells me about the modeling her other sister, Sienna, does, and how their mother is obsessed with getting her new campaigns now that she’s became recently unemployed. Their oldest sister is some hot shot lawyer with a bad case of OCD that makes her a perfectionist. I can tell who Sky is closest with and who she’s not, and just how much those distinct lines affect her even if she won’t outright admit it.
When she tells me about how her father earned a fortune by being a smart businessman and investing in the stock market, I couldn’t help but become ten times more interested. From the smile on her face as she explains the marketing campaigns he’s helped build from the ground up, I can tell she’s proud of him.
“Maybe you could have a conversation with him sometime,” she says lightly. “He could shed some light on possible career paths. Give you advice. He loves talking business. Sometimes I think he’s sad more of us didn’t go into business or marketing at school, so he would have somebody to talk to about these things.”
Her face over that concept makes me grin. “I take it you don’t enjoy talking about those things.”
Her head shakes, a sheepish smile gracing her face. “Not really. Especially not during dinner. There were some nights that was all he wanted to talk about until one of the girls cut in and started telling us about some guy they were crushing on or local gossip about neighbors they wanted to discuss.”
My chuckle is quiet. “I can’t picture you participating in either of those conversations, Blondie.”
“I’d rather hear about the male escort that Mrs. McKenna, our ninety-year-old neighbor, hired over stock portfolios and projections on the latest sneaker trends.”
Her deadpan expression makes my grin widen. “Touché. And what, exactly, did Mrs. McKenna do with said male escort?”
She leans in like she’s about to share a secret, so I do too. “Word on the street is that they were in the middle of doing very naughty, illegal things when she had a stroke. Sienna saw the ambulance rushing her away while cops spoke to the escort. Because he didn’t want to get arrested for prostitution, he lied and said he was her nephew.”
“How do you know he isn’t her nephew?”
She giggles. “Because Mark Pemberley across the street also uses his services for the same reason Mrs. McKenna does.” Her wink about stops my heart, and I want her to do it again.
“Damn, Blondie,” I say, letting out an impressive laugh. “Sounds like you left behind a lot of entertainment.”
Leaning back, she rests her crossed arms on the edge of the table. “California is the land of entertainment, after all. Our street might as well have its own reality TV show.”
“I’d tune in.”
In exchange for the history lesson that she gave me on her family, I tell her all about the Bridges. How my mother and father were never really in love and chose not to drag it out after I was born. They’d been too young to make anything work between them, even for me—no fifteen-year-olds would have attempted that impossible mission. Hardly anything I can blame them for.
I tell her about being raised by my mother and grandmother and all the awkward conversations I had with them, especially throughout puberty. I brag about the homeless shelter Ma runs and the charity she heads to fund the local food bank south of Boston. My smile grows when I mention the trouble Grandma Meadow gets into since her retirement as a schoolteacher, trouble usually pertaining to sporting events and gambling.
Money becomes common ground between us when I mention the old money passed down between the generations.
Our families both have it.
We grew up around it.
But neither of us really care much about its value. Not like some people would. My first, and only, real girlfriend was obsessed with talking about our future together like the dollar sign she knew was attached to my name bought her future luxuries. To her, my Jeep wasn’t nice enough, new enough, or fancy enough. The clothes I wore, even though brand name, weren’t stylish enough, and the schools I was looking into weren’t representative of my family’s wealth.
With Skylar, none of that shit matters. I could probably show up in a holey shirt, scuffed shoes, and dirty jeans and she wouldn’t give a shit. And considering where we are, she’s not that interested in people with ivy leagues associated with their names.