“But I can—”
“Seriously, I’ll get it. The truth is, I’m getting two subs for myself. Because I can’t ever choose between the Thanksgiving one and the cheese steak. So, if you want a bite of either or both, fine. If not, whatever. No pressure.”
Dan backed away from the table, holding my gaze, then turned and strolled toward the counter. I watched as he pulled out his phone, glanced at it for a short moment, and then stuffed it back in his pocket.
Rubbing my forehead, I closed my eyes and redoubled my efforts to focus. It was imperative that I separate myself from this moment, from Dan. For the hour, he would not be Dan the Security Man, who I couldn’t stop ogling, or thinking about, or fretting about his opinion of me.
I needed to forget about that.
He would merely be the parts of himself relevant to the present situation: a good person; a person I needed to protect; a person I trusted to help.
Feeling steadier, I reached for my bag and withdrew my phone. Once on, I unlocked it and navigated to my list of misdeeds, intent on reviewing it when he returned to the table. Sandra’s advice was in the back of my mind, encouraging me to be honest without putting myself down.
However, as soon as my cell had a signal, it buzzed, and then it buzzed again, and again. Eugene had called me three times and had left two messages, not counting texts. Tallying the notifications, I realized he’d sent twelve new text messages. The last one was three paragraphs long and seemed to detail a cautionary tale of someone named Harold Hamm who’d married without a prenup. The unfortunate billionaire—or ex-billionaire—was now in big trouble and on the precipice of losing his company.
More importantly, Eugene pointed out, Harold Hamm’s employees were now at risk of losing their livelihood.
I gave my phone the side-eye. Uncle Eugene was a stinker. He knew I would be having lunch with Dan today and was clearly very adept at pushing my buttons.
“What’s wrong?” Dan settled back in his seat, looking between my phone and me. “Bad news?”
“No. It’s not bad. It’s just . . .” I sighed again. I couldn’t seem to stop sighing.
Dan tilted his head, his eyes on my cell phone screen. “Who’s Eugene?”
“He’s my lawyer—actually, my family’s lawyer—and he’s the executor of my father’s will.”
“Did your”—Dan covered my hand, his gaze impossibly soft and sympathetic—“dad die? Is that why you needed to get married?”
“No. He’s still alive. But he has Alzheimer’s and has for a while.”
“Oh yeah. I knew that.” Dan stripped his straw of paper with one hand, pushing it into his cup. “He and your mom are at the same care facility, right?”
I stared at him, no longer astonished or dismayed by his knowledge of my past, but rather suddenly irritated by it. Looking at Dan through a filter of suspicion—now that it was clear he’d had me investigated well before I’d asked him to marry me last Wednesday—gave my mind focus.
After a moment, he met my gaze. While we traded stares, his eyebrows lifted by millimeters, as though reading my thoughts and surprised by their direction.
“Your last name isn’t Tanner,” he said finally, his tone flat, and he released my hand.
“What else do you know about me?” I crossed my arms.
“You’re the heiress to the Caravel Pharmaceuticals fortune. Your mother is Rebekah Caravel-Tyson, the famous painter and even more famous heiress, and your father is Zachariah Tyson, scientist and—with your mother’s illness—now the majority stakeholder in Caravel Pharmaceuticals. Your cousin, Caleb Tyson, is the CEO.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Dan shrugged. The movement was seasoned with the barest hint of embarrassment, but mostly pragmatism. “When Quinn started things up with Janie, the team prepared dossiers on all her friends.”
“So you’ve known about me since Janie and Quinn started dating?”
“Yep.”
I would not allow myself to think about the ramifications of this revelation until I was alone with my thoughts. And yes—you guessed it—cheese. Probably a sharp cheddar. Or maybe a brie.
But he wasn’t finished. “I also know that Elizabeth’s first boyfriend died of cancer, what kind of dog Sandra had growing up, that Ashley only entered those beauty contests in Tennessee in order to get a scholarship to college, that Fiona almost made it to the Olympics before she got that brain tumor, and that Marie’s brother is a musician in New York.”
This was information I knew as well, except the difference was he’d read about these experiences, whereas my friends had confided in me willingly.