Jordan stiffened, gazing at the doorway she had left open. He wrapped an arm around her while she kissed his cheek. “Who’s we? Who are you here with?” he snapped.

She took a breath and stepped back, frowning. “Well, hello to you too, big bro. I’m with Mom and Dad, but no one said you were going to be here.” She flicked a curious glance my way before Jordan turned on his heel and stormed off to the kitchen.

We were stuck staring at each other for a long, awkward moment before I stood and walked around the table. “Hi, I’m April Weiss. I’m Jordan’s assistant.”

She and I both turned and gazed at the closed kitchen door where Jordan’s raised voice could be easily heard. Poor grandpa.

“I’m Hannah Fawkes. Little sister to the moody man. And I’m betting that my grandpa didn’t know you were coming or he would never have tried to pull this off.”

I opened my mouth to ask the question when two more people came through the open front door. I recognized them from the family photo on his desk as Jordan’s parents. His mom was slim, of medium height, with red hair that was cut short. Jordan’s dad looked like him—or vice versa, as I reminded myself. He had that distinguished thing going for him, and I was caught by the strong family resemblance of the three generations of Fawkes men. It was like looking at Jordan twenty-five years into the future and beyond.

Hannah waved toward them. “These are my parents,” she said. Then she turned to her dad. “Jordan’s here.”

The man scowled. “That explains the gas-guzzling, global-warming machine in the driveway,” he muttered.

Jordan had reentered on the tail end of that and tossed a glance at his dad before snapping up his keys. “Nice to see you, too.” Then he turned to me. “We’re going.”

I stood rooted to my spot, uncomfortable at being caught in the middle of the family drama. Jordan strode to the door without further acknowledging his father. His mom spun and went after him, catching his arm just inside the still open door. Reverend Fawkes reemerged from the kitchen with a ginormous chocolate cake on a glass cake stand and set it in the middle of the table.

“You want to explain this little stunt to me?” Jordan’s dad asked his grandfather.

“Simmer down and have a seat,” the Reverend replied affably. “All of you sit down. Maybe Carol can coax Jordan back to the table.”

My eyes flew to where Jordan and his mother were conversing in tense voices near the front door. Jordan’s body language was rigid, his hands in his pockets. His mother still had a hand on his arm, the other one gesturing to emphasize her point. I half wondered whether she and the grandfather had colluded to get father and son together in the same room. Maybe this was like a drug intervention or something.

And here I was, smack dab in the middle of a dysfunctional family reunion. Like I didn’t have enough family dysfunction in my own life.

I hurriedly gathered up the dirty lunch dishes and utensils from the table and took them to the kitchen. I paused for a moment before spotting a stack of dessert plates and forks. I grabbed them and carried them to the table.

The sooner the cake was cut and served, the sooner we could excuse ourselves, if necessary. Or maybe Jordan and his dad would be able to talk to each other. Maybe.

Most of the people were seated and now Jordan was slowly, reluctantly coming back to the table with a dark look on his face. The Reverend cut the cake as if nothing unusual had happened. Likely he was going through the motions to establish some semblance of normalcy. A family rift like this was painful for more than merely the two involved. It tore apart an entire family. Given the glares Jordan was now aiming at his grandfather, the man had risked a lot—and had likely lost.

We ate our cake in strained silence for a few minutes. Then, when people could no longer tolerate the tension, they started on a safe subject—me, apparently.

“So April, how long have you been working at Draco?” the Reverend began.

“Oh, well I spent six months in marketing and now I’ve been working as Jordan’s assistant for a month.”

Hannah frowned. “That’s a long internship. Are you there for the work experience or are you trying to get a job with the company?”

I smiled. “I’m headed to business school, I hope. Barring that, I’m really interested in theoretic economics.”

Jordan’s father—who I learned was named Grant Fawkes—snorted. “The world doesn’t need more corporate drones. You’d be better off studying theory and writing papers about it that no one will read.”