Mr. Weatherby made a grunt and rubbed his chin. He cast a look at James, who appeared nonplussed. James had not had someone over for dinner in a long time, not that the heir of the Weatherby empire was a loner or short on friends by any means. Perhaps he had tried to arrange something similar in the past, but Mr. Weatherby had been too busy or uninterested to take part. Mrs. Weatherby may have more insights on James' social habits, but she was passed. God rest her soul.
Mr. Weatherby did take slight at Paxton saying they were "into horses". Into horses? Their reign had been literally built on the backs of Thoroughbreds. James Weatherby #13 supposed Paxton had intentionally phrased it like that, to make light. The same way he made light of their wealth and their rooted history in the US and close association with how the country spent one of its favorite pastimes. Mr. Weatherby could let it slide. The more interesting response was Paxton's viewpoint on James and his worth.
The man smiled and ate his own fish. Currently his son was worth nothing, and yet he was worth everything. Mr. Weatherby had no doubts that James would kill him just as easily as he'd killed Samuel. Mr. Weatherby had safeguards in place. Not even Dr. Styles could undo them. Did Paxton know about Samuel? Likely not. Any sane human being wouldn't come within fifteen miles of his sociopath son. It was the family secret, and one that he shared in a passing glance at James. Father and son held a brief eye contact before Mr. Weatherby swallowed his bite of food and followed it with a sip of wine.
"I suppose because I already know why." The man snickered and picked up his napkin, dabbing at his lips. "But alright. I suppose it's only fair if I indulge our guest, isn't it, James? So, tell me then." Mr. Weatherby delivered the question like an actor delivered a bad line. "Why did you throw the elections?"
James, releasing the edge of the table as Paxton smoothly eased the conversation away from potentially dangerous territory and back on point, smiled back at his father. Their smiles were a match. Both insincere. Both lacking any warmth for the other. "Because, father, Paxton Rivera is a better ally than an enemy. Next year I'll sweep the elections to add that little star on my college applications, no problem. But this was my only chance to cede the victory to Paxton, which has led to a very rewarding friendship already."
Before Mr. Weatherby could spout skepticism, James continued. "In fact, we're in talks about proposing to Paxton's father to build a Weatherby horse racing track in Las Vegas. As you know, there are no thoroughbred races in Nevada, currently. Which is really a waste, isn't it? All those tourists, ready to gamble their life savings away on a weekend, spending it in casinos instead of on a race. Paxton says the demographic would eat it up."
Mr. Weatherby seemed to have something sitting on his throat. He blinked and shifted to sit up on his chair, dollar signs in his eyes. "Is that so?"
"It is." James sipped his wine. "We were in the middle of proceedings when, for some strange reason, my credit card stopped working. Just a fluke, I suppose."
Mr. Weatherby cleared his throat. "I'll get that looked at."
"Thank you, father." James' secret little smile was all in his eyes and shared with Paxton.