Page 104 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

“Please follow me. The family is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

“Cool.” I try to sound enthusiastic, though my heart has lodged up to my throat.

The place is every bit as immaculate as the exterior. Gold-framed paintings glitter around the room like heirlooms, even though they’re new to Massachusetts and to the US. This probably isn’t even their main house.

Every square inch of the place has been thought about. This is nothing like my modern apartment, and certainly nothing like the 1200-square foot house from the 1950s I was raised in. I walk gingerly, in case I bump into a priceless vase or something. The floorboards creak, as if to brag how old they are, or just to signal that someone is here who isn’t supposed to be.

That’s me.

Finally, the butler opens the door to a large room with sofas that evidently the Tanakas have decided to call the drawing room.

“Jason Larvik,” the butler announces in a booming, British voice.

I give an awkward wave and wonder if I was supposed to bow or something.

I wait for coldness to reach Tanaka’s eyes and for him to sneer. After all, he’s always sneering on the news.

Instead, he jumps up with a happy smile. “Jason!”

“Hello, sir.”

He waves his hand away. “Nonsense. No formality necessary amongst friends. Let me introduce you to my wife and son Haruki.”

He gestures to an expensively maintained woman and a guy in his early twenties. They’re both Japanese-looking and regard me with suspicion.

Right. I would probably be suspicious of whatever is causing their normally somber family member to practically jump up with uncharacteristic glee.

Mrs. Tanaka extends a regal hand to me. She has that perfect soft skin that comes from an abundance of Botox and lasers and skin regimes, and is wearing a matching pastel sweater and skirt.

“I heard about the jet ski incident,” Mrs. Tanaka says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just happy to have survived.”

Tanaka slaps me on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

I give an awkward smile.

Haruki is busy giving me his father’s dismissive sneer. He probably can tell I’m not a fellow billionaire or something. Perhaps his nostrils are flaring because he can smell the former-lower-middle-class-ness on me. My Seaport apartment is nothing compared to Tanaka’s wealth, and I’m suddenlyreminded that I don’t have decades of years ahead of me. One decade if I’m super lucky, but most likely less than that.

At least Tanaka seems taken with me, even though I didn’t realize he had a good side to be taken in by. Everyone had resolved themselves to being perpetually despised by him for our entire time on the Blizzards.

“Haruki has taken many skating lessons,” Tanaka says.

“Ah. That’s great.”

“Figure skating,” Haruki says. “Real skating.”

I try to nod knowledgeably. “We’ve had some figure skaters teach us lessons before.”

Tanaka cringes. “Coach Holberg. He is difficult to put up with. I would never have hired him.”

My breath halts.

I wasn’t particularly fond of Coach Holberg last week, but I don’t want to complain about him. Because honestly, Coach Holberg had legitimate concerns about me. Besides, figure skating was useful.

“I liked the lessons,” I say. “They were interesting.”

Tanaka is silent, then he smiles. “But you are adventurous. You went to Fiji. You are real man. Of course, you would like new activities.”