“Of course. Act as if we’re a happy family and like each other. Right? Is that what I should do?” I say and give her a huge noogie. Because she deserves it.
“Ouch. Don’t mess up my hair.”
“Fine, fine. I get it. You want me to pretend I’m a choirboy and you’re an angel.”
She places her palms together in prayer. “I am an angel.”
We enter the restaurant, and my dad greets us in the lobby. Harper excuses herself for the ladies’ room, and my dad claps me on the back. “Thank you for joining me. You got the memo, right?”
“Of course. Don’t I look the part of the successful, blue-blooded son?” I slide my hand along my tie, courtesy of Barneys, thank you very much.
He gives me a mock punch on the jaw. “You always do.” Then he drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re here. And listen,” he says, lowering his voice, “you know I don’t care what you do after hours. But Mr. Offerman has four daughters, ages seventeen down to eleven. So he prefers a bit more of a—”
“Goody Two-shoes image?” I say, flashing my best good-boy grin.
My dad snaps his fingers and nods.
“Are they here at breakfast? His daughters?”
He shakes his head. “Just you and your sister, him and me. He wanted to meet the two of you. And all I mean is the less your status as the ‘noted New York City playboy’ comes up, the happier he will be, and the happier he is, the happier I am. Can you do that?”
I heave a sigh and widen my eyes. “I don’t know, Dad. That, like, seriously limits my conversational abilities. Since I usually only talk about women and sex. Fuck,” I say in a frustrated tone. I pretend to prop myself up, counting off on my fingers. “Okay, politics, religion, gun control. That’s what I’ll focus on, ’kay?”
“Don’t make me get my muzzle,” he jokes.
“Dad, I got this. I will not derail your dream. I promise you that. For the next hour, I am the dutiful son and rising New York businessman. I won’t say a word about women, or the Boyfriend Material app,” I tell him, because I’m a chameleon. I can play party boy or serious businessman. I can play Yale graduate or trash talker. Today, I’ll be calling on my Ivy League self, not the dude who created and sold one of the hottest dating apps.
“Thank you for keeping low-key about that side of things. I’ve been searching for years for the right buyer, and I think we’ve finally found one. If all goes well on the last few details, we should be signing the papers the end of next week.”
My dad is a rock star in the jewelry business. Hardly anyone knows his name, but pretty much everyone knows his store. He started Katharine’s on Fifth Avenue thirty years ago, and it is the definition of class in the jewelry business. The sky blue boxes the store uses have become nothing short of iconic—a sign that a gorgeous gift is on its way. Pearls, diamonds, rubies, silver, gold—you name it. Named for my mom, Katharine’s is a palace of sophistication, and my dad has turned the Fifth Avenue store into the flagship of a chain with locations in twelve cities around the globe. Katharine’s put my sister and me through private school, then college, and has generally made our lives all-around awesome.
Dad wants to retire and sail around the world with my mom. It’s been his dream, and he finally found the right buyer, someone who gets the refined elegance he’s built, and has the financial profile for the kind of transaction he requires.
Leaving the business to Harper or me was never in the cards. I have zero interest in running an international jewelry chain, and my sister doesn’t either. I’m already doing what I love—running the three Lucky Spot bars in Manhattan with Charlotte. Besides, I made my own mint when I launched Boyfriend Material straight out of college.
The whole premise was simple, but genius.
No dick pics allowed.
Because – wait for it – women don’t like dick pics. At the early stage of dating, there’s basically nothing more aggressive and off-putting than sending a lady you’re interested in a shot of your junk. Doesn’t matter if you’re hung like a horse—that shot will make her cringe. My app offered a haven for women, a promise that they wouldn’t be photographically assaulted by unwelcome cock shots.
The app took off, my investors made major bank, and I cleaned up like the lucky bastard I am.
But for the next hour, while talking to Mr. Offerman, I’m simply a guy who works in the food and beverage business. Game on.
CHAPTER THREE
Dad escorts Harper and me to a big round table, covered in a crisp white tablecloth, in the back of the restaurant.
“Mr. Offerman, I’m delighted to introduce you to my children. This is my daughter Harper, and my son Spencer.”
With dark eyes and jet-black hair, Mr. Offerman is tall and imposing. He’s built like a tree trunk, and he stands ramrod straight. I bet he was military. He has the air of a general.
“Pleasure to meet the two of you,” he says in a deep baritone. Yup, this man gives orders.
We exchange pleasantries and settle in at the table. Once we order, he narrows in on Harper.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. How fantastic that you’re a magician…” As he pumps her with questions, it hits me—Harper’s profession is perfect for his “family-friendly” image. She works kids’ parties, and he’s eating that up. She shows him some of her tricks. She makes his fork disappear, then his napkin, then his water glass.