They’d slept together on their first date. People didn’t…well, he had often enough. But parents didn’t…his couldn’t…had.
“Where did you find a place?”
It was a friggin’ hotel, Cassidy. Lots of beds there. His own mother—the little beauty queen-social climber that she was—had climbed right into his father’s lap and his fortune.
His mother reached out and touched Cassidy’s hand like a best friend emphasizing a point.
“It’s New York. There’s always someplace to dance.”
Dance?
“We found the seediest little dive,” John tapped his feet on the cockpit floor. “Smoking dark jazz.”
“We slow danced past sunrise.”
He was so glad that Cassidy was doing the speaking. He’d have screwed up the conversation eight different ways already. Maybe he could understand some of his father’s silences. Julia
