The Perfect Distraction. Jessica Bird

thin room, her loafers making a clicking sound on the inlaid floor. She smiled in a general way, feeling like an inept, ugly Miss America candidate. Who was about to get dinged by the judges.

      When she sat down, Richard said under his breath, “You could have called.”

      “I know. But I don’t have a cell phone.”

      “Which makes you the only person in America without one.”

      Richard turned away and promptly started to talk horses with the woman on his left, as if he were resuming a conversation that had been rudely interrupted.

      Mad took a sip from her water glass and thought fondly of her new lawyer.

      As a salad plate was put down in front of her, she snuck a peek at her half brother, and up this close, she realized he had in fact changed. Richard no longer resembled their father, he’d reached his life goal and had turned into the man: he was a carbon copy now, presiding over his fancy guests, eating with Christophe silver on Royal Crown Derby plates, sipping from Baccarat glasses. And yes, the Maguire family signet ring was on his right ring finger.

      As their father had always worn it.

      Looking at the stamp in the heavy gold, everything slid into place.

      Richard was like a Brooks Brothers bobble head spitting back criticisms that had made her cringe when she was growing up: her father back from the dead. That was why she was so weak around her half brother. It wasn’t just because he’d been hard on her when they’d been younger.

      Putting a label on the dynamic kind of helped and she wondered why she hadn’t figured it out sooner. Then again, she’d always done her best to avoid thinking about Richard.

      Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

      Mad blotted her lips, returned the damask napkin to her lap and realized that she’d crossed her feet together under her chair like a good little girl.

      Oh, hell, no, she thought. If she was going to make it through this weekend in one piece, she needed to fight the urge to fall into place.

      Feeling like a rebel, she eased up, cocked one foot under her butt, and sat back down with her leg on the chair.

      “Isn’t that right, Madeline,” Richard drawled.

      “Excuse me?” She deliberately played with the tassel on her loafer. Sure enough, Richard caught the movement and his eyes bugged out.

      He opened his mouth as if he were going to scold her, but seemed to realize that would have been absurd.

      As he cleared his throat, it seemed more curse than cough. “Penelope was commenting on the new Rubens exhibition at the Met. But I told her you wouldn’t have seen it because that kind of thing doesn’t interest you.”