Page 47 of Wide-Eyed
Like Lyssa.
“Changing the subject!” My dad said loudly. “How’s the deck coming along, son?”
Lyssa’s eyes bugged.
I was confused by her reaction until I remembered Caroline’s story about an American casting agent who thought she was talking about the contents of his pants when she was making conversation about the view from the balcony.
In our accent, E’s sounded like I’s, which was an issue if you were talking about wood-clad viewing platforms or PowerPoint presentations.
Lyssa looked like she was going to say something, and after yesterday, anything she had to say about dicks could be deeply incriminating for me.
I jumped in quickly. “Thanks for asking, Dad, my slide deck for my presentation is coming along well.”
Lyssa turned in her seat to stare at me. “What presentation?”
Shoot. Out of the dick frying pan, into the dick fire.
“Mikey didn’t tell you?” My dad looked from Lyssa to Dean, who shook his head. “Either of you?”
I wasn’t known for keeping secrets. Not usually. (Although I planned to take the fact I’d eaten Lyssa out in a parked car on the side of the road to my fucking grave.) Now, Lyssa and Dean were staring at me expectantly, and Jason was pretending to wipe a glass but he was really hanging off of every word.
I genuinely wanted to throw myself off a cliff more than I wanted to have this conversation, but the alternative was dick chat.
“I have this thing coming up where I have to talk to some business blowhards about my educational farm. It’s no big deal.” Dad opened his mouth, but I shot him a look. “Talking about it makes me feel like I’m going to shit my pants, so let’s change the subject, aye?”
“No way.” Dean shook his head, his expression unusually animated. “You can’t brush us off that easy. Tell us about the presentation.”
“It’s nothing,” I insisted.
Lyssa’s expressive eyes were locked on me even as her nails scrabbled uselessly against the shell of a pistachio. Today’s nails had little cheer pom poms glued to them, which must have been for my game. It made my gut flip.
“I have the chance to pitch for funding from the Tararua Rural Entrepreneurs Association to start Mike’s Place,” I said gruffly. “I had to put a slide d—a presentation together to convince the moneybags it’s a good idea.”
“What does your presentation cover?” Dean asked.
Feeling like it would be better to lay down on the bar and have my chest flayed open, I said, “Business stuff. A profit model. Some marketing.”
“You did all that?” Dean looked surprised.
“Yeah?” I said it like it was a question, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “Tessa helped.”
“Wow,” Dean said.
“What?” I demanded. “Is this so shocking?”
“No offense, mate, but yeah.”
“Because all I do is fuck girls and milk cows, is that it, Dean?”
“Better than the other way around,” Jason joked.
“No,” Dean replied, ignoring Jason. “Because you never mentioned it.”
“Didn’t know I needed a permission slip,” I grouched.
Dean looked taken aback. I didn’t know how to explain it, but the thought of getting messages from my family and friends on the day of my presentation, asking how it went, and having to type out that the committee had laughed in my face made me want to die.
I forced a subject change. Dean let it go, because it wasn’t his thing to stay in someone’s business when they didn’t want him there. Jason, the nosy bastard, would have asked follow-ups, but I ordered another round, which he had to go out back for. Dad began talking about the new roof for Levitate, and I nodded and made mmm sounds.
