Tate grabbed his ticket from the valet and made his way into the country clubhouse. He still didn’t know why his parents threw this party every fucking year. He’d stopped attending in college. They invited so many people—neighbors, friends, upper and middle management from Skriddie—at the time he’d wondered what he was supposed to get out of the whole event. He’d figured it out since. It was about the networking, the meeting people, and if he managed to find the right people, enjoying Memorial Day. He cut straight for the bar, made eye contact with the guy pouring drinks, and smiled. “Hey, man. How’s it going? I’m Tate.” He extended his hand. “Gary.” The bartender returned the handshake. “What can I get you?” Tate’s smile grew, and he leaned against the bar. One of the things he’d figured out was finding the right people meant being in the right place. “Whatever you’re making today, I’ll pay you that much more to let me slide back there and serve drinks.”
