Home > Meet Me Halfway (West Brothers, #1)(3)

Meet Me Halfway (West Brothers, #1)(3)
Author: Dee Lagasse

Opening his arms, he offers her the same charming grin he used to give women at the pub when we were younger. It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes, but this is what he does. Completely unintentionally, I might add. He’s charismatic by nature.

Based on looks alone, you’d have no idea Alfie and I are related. We’re half-brothers genetically, but only I favor our mother. My rich espresso tendrils are quite the contrast from my brother’s fiery-red hair. Even our eye colors are drastically different; Alfie’s change between shades of green depending on the way the light hits them, while mine always stay the same dark brown.

I always wished I could trade my Greek, olive complexion for his fair Irish one, the summer sun always bringing out the dozens of freckles scattered across his face. Of course, I would never admit that out loud.

As children, I used to tease him, telling him that he looked different than us because he was adopted. That stopped as soon as he realized he could pummel me.

Our physical appearances aren’t the only thing that make my brother and I polar opposites. My brother played football and rugby in school. He had friends all over the world— never meeting a stranger in his entire life, it seemed—while I very purposely kept my circle small, always focusing on school as a child, and now my career as an adult.

Everything came easy to my brother—marks, sports, women. The newly-added wedding ring on his finger didn’t seem to hinder that either.

“No.” Carina chuckles, the corners of her lips turning up, reciprocating Alfie’s smile right on cue before she turns to me. “He’s right. I am late.”

Motioning to the stoic woman standing silently next to her, Carina steps back slightly.

“This is Ana Olson,” she explains, her smile turning from one of obligation to one of respect and admiration. “My attorney.”

Before Carina or Ana make their way around the table to where I’m standing, I shake off my aggravation. I close the space between us, reminding myself that this is all part of the job.

“Ryan West, executive producer of, well, your show.” Offering Carina a polite smile, I extend my hand. I didn’t need to add the bit about being the producer. She bloody well knew who I was. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Ms. Domenico.”

I’ve been in this industry my whole life. The pleasantry may be fake, but I can bullshit my way through this entire lunch if necessary—something I learned from watching my own mother do so for many, many years.

Margaret West is a world-famous cooking personality, author of over thirty cookbooks, has her own frozen food and cooking accessory lines, and is a mother of two. Alfie and I spent our entire childhood on sets, in dressing rooms, and at the occasional red carpet event. During her almost thirty-year run with the network, our mum has never once lost her composure. She’s never had a diva tantrum, been too demanding, or caused a scene when something didn’t go her way.

At least, not in public for anyone to see.

While watching her career up close certainly helped me choose a career path of my own, being surrounded by bright studio lights and watching my mum sit in makeup and wardrobe for hours before the camera was even rolling, taught me one thing: I did not want to be in front of the camera; I wanted to be behind it.

Four years of studying film and direction in university followed by two years on the indie circuit landed me right back home though. Broke, and no further in my career than where I started.

Within days of returning to London with my tail between my legs, my mother got me a job as a cameraman on her show. When a lead cameraman job opened on a different show, I took it, trading my childhood bedroom in for a flat in Manhattan.

It wasn’t the glamorous life of lights, camera, action I had envisioned for myself, but it was a job. A job that eventually led to producing when Alfie and I jointly decided that’s what we wanted to do next.

It’s a big step for my career. Being able to say I have producer credits could open so many more doors for me in the future. So, if that means playing the role of the nice guy and attending lunch meetings, I have to do it.

“I’m supposed to apologize for being late and tell you I had car trouble,” Carina says, leaning in after glancing over to where Ana and my brother are talking. “But the truth is, my ex is an asshole and he didn’t pick up my daughter like he promised he would, so I had to scramble and ask my mother to keep an eye on her.”

I’m not easily thrown off, but her admission leaves me at a loss for words.

“You’re not as quiet as you think, Carina,” the woman in the navy blue pantsuit chides before extending her hand to me.

Shrugging, Carina slides into the bench seat on the other side of the table.

“If Mr. West and I are going to work together every day, I don’t want to start our relationship off with a lie,” she says, unfazed by the tone of warning in her attorney’s voice.

Chuckling as I shake Ana’s hand, there’s no mistaking that the middle-aged woman is studying me before I respond to Carina’s blunt honesty.

While I can understand the precaution from her lawyer, I prefer the truth over a fabricated excuse in any situation. I just wasn’t expecting Carina to drop the professional masking within mere minutes of us meeting.

Which is why I’ve all but forgotten she was late, grinning as I take my seat. “You said you have a daughter, Ms. Domenico? What’s her name?”

 

 

3

 

 

Carina

 

 

As I slide onto the bench across from Ryan West, I feel slightly more confident in my last-minute wardrobe change.

I had every intention of wearing a new pencil skirt today. The black form-fitting skirt had been laid out with the white blouse I also bought last week. I almost put it back on the rack after trying it on in the Bloomingdale’s dressing room.

It wasn’t the skirt. It was me.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m in leggings or yoga pants. I’m a sports mom and a teacher’s assistant. I haven’t had a reason to wear a skirt in years. I’ve been in the bridal party of every wedding I’ve attended in the last decade, so even on the rare occasion I have had to wear a dress, I just wore what I was told to.

So, as soon as I pulled the fabric over my hips this morning and took a glance in the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door, my stomach flipped. Without giving it much thought, I unzipped the skirt, leaving it in a crumpled pile on the floor. I settled instead for a pair of skinny, black dress slacks I bought last spring to wear to Lina’s soccer banquet.

Lina.

Ryan asked me about Lina.

“Lina is eight,” I start, reaching for the white cloth napkin, unfolding it, and placing it on my lap before glancing back up. I look between the brothers sitting across the table from me. “Going on sixteen. She loves fashion. I swear she has more clothes hanging in her closet than I’ve had in my entire life. She’s been playing soccer since she could walk and has recently developed an obsession with the Jonas Brothers.”

Before they can respond, the blonde that greeted Ana and I returns to the table, standing in front of Alfie—a bright, fake smile plastered across her face.

“Hey, everyone,” she says, looking between Alfie and Ryan. She doesn’t so much as glance at me or Ana as she continues on. It’s like we’re not even at the table with the West brothers. “I’m Darlene. I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

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