Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,256

you did. I’m sorry if asking about her made you sad.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you asked. You know what?” I ran a hand over my scruffy jaw, wishing I’d trimmed it up a little. “No one does. No one ever talks about her in front of me.”

“Maybe they’re worried it’s too painful.”

“I guess. But I’d much rather talk about her than myself.” I looked at Margot and realized I’d monopolized the entire conversation. “Actually, I don’t want to talk at all, I want to listen. Tell me about you.”

She smiled. “What do you want to know?”

I thought for a second. “Tell me about the horse you had growing up.”

Her eyes lit up, and she told me about Maple Sugar, the thoroughbred she’d owned from the time she was eight years old until she left for college. When she teared up, she apologized and said it was silly to get sentimental about a horse she hadn’t seen in more than ten years, but I understood the bond between humans and horses and told her so.

I learned about her family, her father’s Senatorial race, the company she’d started with her friend. “Did you always want to go into marketing?” I asked.

“No. Not really.” She smiled. “Actually, I’d have liked to be a social worker, but Muffy said that was out of the question.”

I made a face. “Muffy?”

“My mother’s nickname. You see, all the first-born daughters in her family, the Thurbers, are named Margaret or some variation thereof, the middle name has to be her mother’s maiden name, and woe to anyone who tries to defy this tradition.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. You can go traditional, like Margaret or Marjorie. French like Margot or Marguerite, and you can even get away with changing up the spelling, like M-A-R-G-R-E-T, but don’t you dare get cutesy and American and do something like Maisie or Maggie or Greta, at least not on the birth certificate. My cousin Mamie named her daughter Marley, and Great-Grandma Thurber died before she spoke to her again.”

“Wait.” I put out one hand. “Mamie and Muffy are OK, but Marley isn’t?”

She giggled, flushed from two glasses of wine. “Mamie and Muffy are only nicknames, not on the birth certificates. We have to have nicknames, see, otherwise it would be mass confusion all the time. Plus WASPs love nicknames.”

I propped my arm on the bar. “What’s yours?”

She brought her hands to her mouth, laughing uncontrollably. The sound was girlish and playful, and sent a wave of heat rushing through me.

“Come on, tell me,” I said, unable to keep a smile from my lips.

She dropped her hands in her lap and tried to keep a straight face. “It’s Gogo.”

“Gogo?” I burst out laughing, leaning back in my chair. “Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so.” She looked at me, and her eyes were full of something good—wonder and warmth and affection.

My laughter died down and I found myself looking at her the same way. I loved that she could laugh at herself. If only things were different. I cleared my throat. “So Muffy said no to social work, huh?”

“Yes. She said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margot. Thurber women go to Vassar and major in English.’” She shrugged. “So I did.”

“Were you happy with that decision?”

“I guess. I never really thought about it. I got my degree, came home, took a job working for my father…and that was that.”

“Did you like what you did?”

“Yes.” She thought for a moment. “A lot of what I did involved charity work and fundraising, and I liked knowing I was helping people.”

“How’d your parents take it when you left to start your own company?”

She chuckled. “They were kind of baffled by everything I did last year—I broke up with my boyfriend, took up yoga, quit working for my dad, started Shine PR…”

“Yoga?” I arched a brow at her.

She shook her head. “Didn’t take.”

“And the boyfriend?”

“Still gone. And he’ll stay that way.” Her dinner arrived and she laid her napkin across her lap.

“Why’s that? Let me guess—Muffy didn’t approve?”

She hesitated, her fork hovering above her planked whitefish. “That’s a long story. Let’s just say we’ve both moved on. I’m looking for something better.”

“Like what? What is Margot Thurber Lewiston looking for in a man?” I was teasing, but I was also curious. “A certain number of zeroes in his bank account? A Rolls Royce? A house in the Hamptons?”

“No,” she said. “I’m not totally shallow and pretentious, despite what you might think.”

“So?” I prodded. “What then?”

She put a forkful in her mouth and chewed as she thought. “I