Page 9 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

Dad’s at least two shades darker than I remember. The last time I saw him was six months ago during the holidays. He’s been bouncing back and forth from California to New York, ever since he signed on as a writer and executive producer for his series film adaptation.

I thought for sure we were ready to retire our birthday tradition.

I’m not a kid anymore, but the older I get, the harder he seems to hold on to the past. He hopped on a six-hour flight just to take me to dinner, the night before my actual birthday, at this hoity-toity restaurant.

I mentioned to him last year that I always wanted to eat at The Gilded Perch but couldn’t afford to.

He’s been planning this… for an entire year .

“You look good, Dad. Tan. The Hollywood sun suits you.”

He huffs with disdain. “The only time I’m in the sun is the walk from the writers’ room to my car. California is too damn sunny.”

I meet his grouchy reply with a doe-eyed smile. “ Writers’ room ,” I muse softly. “Please tell me all about it. And I mean every single detail. What’s it like?”

“It’s like work,” he answers dryly.

“No, I mean being in an actual studio’s writers’ room.

You’re working with some of the best screenwriters in the industry.

I know screenwriters and novelists have different crafts, but that’s still a hell of a lot of writing talent in one room.

What are the conversations like?” Exhaling a slow breath, I try to calm down.

I am about ten seconds away from drooling at the notion of writing a book so revered, Hollywood is fighting over the film adaptation. My dad is living my wildest dreams.

“It’s a lot of chattering monkeys mincing my words is what it is.” He waves off the conversation. “But I don’t want to talk shop on your birthday.”

“My birthday is tomorrow,” I mumble in a weak excuse, but it’s no use. This is how Dad always is. He’s so tight-lipped about his job, you’d think he was involved in wet work for the CIA.

Accepting defeat, I show him a begrudging smile before poking my fork into a small piece of my garlic-herb-crusted barramundi. Quick mental math tells me this fish is about six dollars a bite. I chew slowly, savoring the luxury that only my dad’s wallet can afford.

The servers are all wearing black from head to toe, except for their white gloves.

It’s like mimes are walking around replacing every sip of water I take the second my glass leaves my lips and hits the table.

There’s great service, then there’s table stalking, and I fear The Gilded Perch is toeing the line.

“Why are you chewing like that? Is the fish bad?” He already has two fingers in the air, flagging down a mime.

“ No. Put your hand down. It’s phenomenal.

I never eat this well. I’m experiencing my food.

” I glance at his clean plate which looks like a Labrador licked it clean.

There’s not even a drop of Béarnaise sauce left.

Dad took down his bacon-wrapped filet mignon in two bites, right before grouching about the tiny portions here.

He lifts one bushy, salt-and-pepper brow. “What do you mean you never eat this well?”

“I mean my idea of fancy is topping ramen with a little chili crunch. Add some day-old rotisserie chicken, and voilà.” I sprinkle my fingers over my plate. “Culinary masterpiece.”

“You’re still eating ramen noodles for dinner, Sora?”

“Yes. My life is regal,” I deadpan.

Issuing a raspy sigh, Dad leans back into the tufted-fabric dining chair. With his head lowered and eyes lifted, he matches my gaze, but doesn’t return my smile. “You need money.”

Obviously. But I shake my head like it’s preposterous. “I was being glib. I’m fine.”

“Ramen is for broke college kids trying to figure out their lives.”

“Take out the college part…” I shrug innocently. “Pretty accurate.”

“How much?” he asks so seriously.

I reach across the table for him, but Dad’s too far away.

Instead, I trill my fingers against the surface, the thick table linen turning my taps into muted thuds.

“I don’t want your money.” I blink at him a few times.

“Well, except to pay for dinner, because I absolutely can’t afford this meal.

Did you know the cocktail I ordered cost thirty dollars? ”

His lips twitch into an almost-smile, but it’s clear he’s distracted. “It’s your birthday dinner. Order everything you like.”

“Then I’m ordering more fish to go.”

His grin quickly widens, then disappears just as fast. “You still have the same bank account? I’ll set up a wire.”

Forcing sincerity into my expression, I shake my head slowly.

“Jokes aside, no. Thank you, but no. I don’t want to be that kid with my hand out.

I’m still in my ramen-eating phase but it won’t be forever.

One day, I’m going to take you to a restaurant like this and cover the bill with the money I earned, not the money Daddy gave me. ”

There’s a flash of pride on his face. It’s almost a sweet daddy-daughter moment until he opens his mouth again. “Why wait? It’s all yours when I die anyway. Start the celebration early.”

My eyes roll so hard I swear they nudge my frontal lobe. “Perhaps shocking, but I’m not really looking forward to your death just to collect on an inheritance check.”

“You’ll never cut it in Hollywood with that attitude, kid.”

“Well, if my writing career continues to tank, I will ditch my independent attitude and seriously consider nepo baby as my next profession.”

His guffaw cuts through the low murmur of voices in the restaurant, attracting the attention of nearby diners.

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if someone will recognize him.

There’s been a time or two when shameless, diehard J.P.

Cooper fans have crashed our private meals.

But not tonight. The diners turn their attention back to their own plates.

Weaving my hands together in my lap, I pray my dad asks me about my writing.

I just gave him the bait. My career is tanking.

He’s quick to offer cash, but money isn’t the most valuable thing he can offer me.

When it comes to advice, he’s so damn stingy.

It’s like if Michael Jordan refused to show his kid how to shoot hoops. Senseless.

Leaning down, I reach into my purse to produce Dane Spellman’s information. “Before I forget, I have something for you.” With one finger, I slide the business card to Dad’s side of the table.

“What’s this?”

“Have you heard of Spellman Literary? I met the owner today. He asked me to pass this along to you.” I tap the card where Dane scribbled in his personal number. “That’s his cell. He said to call him day or night.”

Dad picks up the business card and rips it in two. “Well, he can hold his breath waiting, then suffocate.”

“With all that charm, you must have to beat the ladies away with a stick.”

“Why do you have this?” he asks, ignoring my clever jab. “What the hell are you doing meeting with sleazy agents?”

Oh, geez. Here we go. “Why does he have to be sleazy?”

“Is he an agent?”

“Yes.”

Dad holds out his open palm. “Case in point.”

“For your information, he’s the best in the business. I was lucky to even get a meeting. He was friendly enough. He introduced me to a book marketing expert who can help me grow my readership. I just have to get a little investment money first.”

“Ah, and by marketing expert do you mean a lost Nigerian prince who is caught in the midst of a corrupt regime and needs your bank account number to restore peace to his rightful kingdom? After which, he’ll reward you richly with a magical bestselling author career, of course.”

I narrow my eyes to slits. “You know, people ask me where I get my sarcasm from. I just don’t know what to tell them.”

“Oh, Sora.” He throws his hands in the air, pairing the gesture with a sharp exhale. “You’re a smart girl. Use your common sense.”

“Common sense? What is that supposed to?—”

“I heard we’re celebrating a birthday,” our waiter-mime interrupts in a singsong as he approaches the table. He beams at me, all of his teeth on display. “How old are you turning?”

I shoot a dark look at Dad. “I’m turning pretty upset at the moment.”

The waiter opens his mouth, then clamps it back shut when he realizes he doesn’t have a viable response.

“Sorry. Twenty-seven. Tomorrow,” I continue. “This is my dad. He’s working on a long-term project in LA, but flew all the way across the country for one night, just to treat me to dinner.”

The waiter didn’t need my explicit explanation.

That was more for me. I needed a reminder of what this night is—Dad, making an effort.

A big one. He wasn’t around much for the majority of my adolescence.

When he was around, he was constantly distracted.

It’s obvious now he’s trying to make up for lost time.

“For your birthday, the chef would like to comp your dessert, whatever you like.” The waiter hands over a skinny, long dessert menu. The font is so swirly, I can barely make out the options.

“Um…” My eyes sweep up and down the menu. “I’m debating between the berry Chantilly cake and the mocha chocolate cheesecake. What would you recommend?”

“They’re both so decadent. You won’t be disappointed with either,” the waiter says, waving his mime-hands around like spirit fingers.

“Then bring her both,” Dad interjects. “Me, the praline pie. And two espressos.” He glances at me. “You still drink coffee, right?”

“Only on the days I’m breathing,” I answer with a wide grin that signals, truce .

The waiter scuttles away after topping off my water glass. He’s slipping. I’ve already had two sips since he last addressed my cup.

“You look beautiful.” Dad shows me a shy smile, very uncharacteristic of his normally more surly demeanor. I’m wearing minimal makeup and a simple black dress that barely satisfies the restaurant’s dress code.

“Thank you.”

“You look so much like your mother.”

That blindsides me. He’s bringing up Mom?