The wine arrived and it took all the strength I had not to snatch the bottle off the waiter and donk Hal over the head with it.
Cal, clearly sensing my perilous state, squeezed my knee under the table. He laughed and quickly changed the subject. “Matt’s a writer. He writes the most beautiful novels. He’s got a true gift, you know.”
“Is that so,” Hal said, sitting back as though challenging me to impress him. “So, you’re the next Ernest Hemingway, then?”
The wine was poured and I downed half the glass in one gulp. “Hemingway spent more time brawling than he did writing. Although there are days I could be tempting to take a leaf out of his book.”
I bunched up my fist in my lap.
Cal saw and his hand went from my knee to my fist to hold it in place.
Oblivious to the fact that I was seconds away from bopping him in his spray-tanned face, Hal asked, “So what kind of books do you write?”
I was ready to shut down the entire subject—not at all comfortable telling Hal about my life, and certainly not in need of his approval—when Cal answered, “Romance. Matt writes romance novels.”
There was a pause.
Then the smile spread across Hal’s face.
And then came a bellow of laughter so loud it echoed through the whole restaurant. “Romance novels? Did you say… romance novels?” He laughed even harder. “You mean those books with shirtless lumberjacks and breathless virgins on the covers? I didn’t realize people actually read those. Are they even considered real books?”
I felt my spine tighten like a drawbridge getting ready to close on a trespasser.
Hal glanced at Cal like he was in on the joke, but Cal simply responded with—“Yes, they’re considered real books. And Matt’s a great writer.”
“I’m sure he is. Everyone needs a hobby, right? Hell, I once tried baking sourdough during lockdown. Didn’t make me a chef, just meant I had too much time on my hands. I eventually took it as a sign that I needed to be doing something meaningful with my life.”
Cal opened his mouth—probably to defend me—but I cut in first.
“Actually,” I said calmly, setting down my glass. “Iamdoing something meaningful with my life. I write about connection. Vulnerability. People finding strength through intimacy, not ego. Which is probably why it’s foreign to you.”
Hal blinked.
“Oh, and for the record?” I added. “Romance novels have sparked more emotional intelligence than any boardroom in America ever did. It takes courage to write about hearts. Anyone can hide behind numbers.”
Cal coughed loudly, possibly to disguise the sound of his soul leaving his body.
Hal smiled, the kind of tight-lipped smirk men wear when they're losing control of the room but haven’t accepted it yet. “Well, hey. Whatever floats your boat, Hemingway. Speaking of which… Cal, should we get down to business and look at the plans for the superyacht marina?”
He reached into his leather folder and pulled out a sheaf of documents, passing them to Cal and adjusting his body languageto make it clear he didn’t want to address me for the remainder of the lunch.
Which was fine by me.
Cal flipped open the file. I leaned over just enough to see a few bolded words:Makai Tract, Phase One. Superyacht Marina Feasibility Draft.
“Now, this is early -stage,” Hal said, pointing at a page like he was teaching a particularly dense child. “We’re still waiting on environmental clearance and shoreline access sign-off, but the concept’s solid. We’ve carved out room for a boardwalk, some boutique retail, and even a cultural center for the locals. You know. Keep the natives happy.”
My head snapped up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
“Excuse me?” I said.
Hal raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Settle down, snowflake. It’s a figure of speech. Don’t get worked up.”
“Don’t call my husband ‘snowflake,’” Cal warned sharply.
“And don’t tell me it’s a figure of speech,” I snapped. “It’s a slur. These are Indigenous communities, not a complication to manage with souvenir shops.”
Hal raised both hands in mock surrender and a laugh. “Alright, alright. Locals, then. You’re very sensitive.”
