“And how are you liking it so far?” His gaze shifts to my waist. And that’s when I remember that Connor is standing with his arm loosely around me. “None of these scoundrels bothering you, I hope?”
I smile shyly at Connor, who gives me a sly grin back. “No scoundrels,” I reply, sipping the last of my drink. How did I finish it that fast? Before I can stop myself, my eyes flicker to Ashton to see his focus settled on my chest. I instinctively cross my arms, earning a wide grin from him as he brings his glass to his lips. Maybe one scoundrel.
“Good. They’re fine young men,” Robert says with an affirming nod. Then we hear a holler as Ty stalks around back in his kilt, and Robert adds, “Maybe a bit wild at times, but then what college kid isn’t. Right, Grant?”
I swear, either Grant has empty-drink radar or he’s watching us like a hawk, because he suddenly appears from behind to hand Reagan and me fresh Jack and Cokes. “Right, Coach.”
“No alcohol in that drink, right, Cleaver?” Robert’s full eyebrow is halfway up his forehead with the question.
“Not a drop,” Grant says, his goofy grin replaced with a mask of sincerity.
“Of course not, Daddy,” Reagan echoes sweetly.
Robert looks down at his doting daughter, who can pull off the innocent, virginal schoolgirl act better than any real one I’ve ever met. Better than . . . well, me, I guess. I can’t tell if he believes her. All he’d have to do is lean in and sniff her drink to know that it’s more booze than mixer. But he doesn’t press it. “So what will you be majoring in, Livie?”
“Molecular biology.”
By the way his eyebrows spike, I can tell he looks impressed.
“Livie’s going into pediatrics,” Connor chirps proudly.
“Good for you. And what made you choose Princeton?”
“My father went here.” The answer rolls off my tongue with ease. It’s as good an answer as any. In truth, I could easily have gone to Harvard, or Yale. I had acceptance letters from all of them, given my school counselors made me apply. But there was never any debate over which one I’d choose.
Robert nods as if expecting that answer. I guess he hears that a lot. It’s not uncommon for several generations to attend Princeton. His brow creases as he ponders this. “What year?”
“1982.”
“Huh . . . I was ’81.” His hand moves to scratch his beard as if he’s deep in thought. “What did you say your last name was again?”
“Cleary.”
“Cleary . . . Cleary . . .” Robert repeats over and over as he rubs his beard with his fingers, and I can tell he’s racking his brain. I take another long sip of my drink as I watch. There’s no way he knows my dad, but I like that he’s trying.
“Miles Cleary?”
I choke on a mouthful of liquid and my eyes widen in surprise.
Robert seems proud of himself. “Well, how about that!”
“Seriously? You knew him? I mean—” I try to temper my excitement.
“Yes.” He nods slowly, as if memories are quickly filling his brain. “Yes, I did. We were both Tiger Inn members. Went to a lot of the same parties. Irish fellow, right?”
I feel my head bobbing up and down.
“Friendly, easygoing.” He chuckles lightly, and I see a hint of something like chagrin pass over his weathered face. “We dated the same girl for a short period of time.” Another chuckle, and his creased cheeks flush with whatever memory that brought up. One that I’m sure I don’t want to hear about. “Then he met that gorgeous dark-haired gal and we didn’t see much of him anymore.” His eyes narrow just a touch as he peers at my face, studying my features. “Looking at you, I’d say he married her. You look like her.”
I smile and nod, averting my gaze to the ground for a moment.
“That is so cool, Livie!” Reagan squeals, her eyes wide with excitement. “We should have them over next time they’re in town!”
Robert is already nodding in agreement with his daughter. “Yes, I’d love to reconnect with Miles.”
“Umm . . .” Just like that, my brief balloon of excitement is deflated by reality. Yes, it would have been great to see my dad and Robert together. To have my parents over here. To watch my dad’s easy laugh. But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I feel Connor’s arm squeeze me, pulling me tightly to him. He’s the only one who knows. Now everyone will know. “Actually, he and my mom died in a car accident when I was eleven.”
There’s a standard “face” for that news when you deliver it. Shock, followed by some paling of the skin, followed by a lifted brow. Usually a single, small nod. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Robert’s face follows precedent to a T, with an additional why-didn’t-you-know-that-about-your-roommate glare in his daughter’s direction. It’s not her fault, though. I never told her. I didn’t avoid telling her; it just didn’t come up in conversation. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Livie,” he offers gruffly.