Epigraph

1. Barrett

CHAPTER 1

Barrett

The clinking of spoons against champagne glasses rises to an ear-splitting level around me. I use the deafening sound as an excuse to extract myself from another tedious conversation with members of New York City’s upper crust.

“Another whiskey, neat, please.” I set my empty glass on the bar.

Behind me, the sharp sound dissipates indicating that the bride and groom have given in to the obnoxious tradition and kissed.

The bartender makes quick work of filling my glass, a large square ice cube and two fingers of Macallan, but not quick enough to allow me to escape my mother, who is quickly approaching. She’s wearing a beaded gown, likely one of hundreds she owns, her makeup is professionally done for the occasion and her short, white hair is curled and styled to perfection.

“There you are, Barrett. I haven’t seen you since the cocktail hour.” She looks pointedly at the amber liquid in my glass. “It appears you’re still there.”

“Good evening, Mother.” I lean down far enough so she can access my cheek. I may be avoiding her but now that she’s found me, there’s no reason to be an asshole.

“It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it?” she asks while waving to a couple across the room.

JoAnna St. Clair is in her element. A social butterfly regaling in the love that two people have found with each other. She’s a romantic and jumps at any chance to celebrate love. Or to try and convince me I’m missing out by being alone.

She’s the head of publishing at St. Clair Press, the publishing house she and my father started. St. Clair Press is housed under the parent company St. Clair Media, known in the industry as SCM.

I nod. “Sure.”

What I mean is I’m guessing it was. I had been checking work emails in the pew during the ceremony.

“Did you speak with Mark and Amber?” she asks.

I nod solemnly.

“Yes, I gave them my condolences,” I cough, “I mean best wishes for a long and happy marriage.”

I raise my glass in the air in a mock toast.

I find weddings and love in general to be a waste of my time.

I give her my best smile, which the alcohol has made a bit lazy. She glances around the room, a brilliant smile plastered to her face. Only I can see the tightness in her jaw.

“It wouldn’t kill you to at least talk to her.”

“Who would that be, Mother? The woman you set me up with tonight unwillingly, or her mother that is already picking out names for our non-existent children?” I take another sip. I love the burning sensation the whiskey creates in my stomach. It overpowers the headache that my mother’s meddling in my personal life always creates.