Page 43
“What?” Rowan balked.
“Please.” Rupert rolled his eyes. “He’s a terrible liar. And I saw the reports of the incident; I remember faces really well. Plus…”
He pulled his phone from his suit pocket and opened their group chat, which Rowan had muted.
It was full of GIFs of Milo biting Rowan.
Goddammit, Raina.
“Two things can be true at the same time,” Rowan said. “He really does work for the wing place. You can check the reception sign-ins.”
Rupert looked at him strangely. “I don’t think it matters whether he delivered a bag of wings or not, do you Rowan?”
Rowan flushed and looked down. “No, I was just pointing out that he’s not a liar, that’s all.”
He didn’t know why that felt important to correct, but he was restless with the urge to get his dad to take it back, feeling defensive of Milo’s honor.
“I see.”
Did he? Would he be able to tell Rowan? Because he had no idea what was going on with him.
“There aren’t going to be any more surprises on this project, are there, son?” Rupert asked.
“No,” Rowan replied hastily, whipping his head up. “I have it all handled.”
He held still under his father’s scrutiny, having never quite managed the poker face his dad had perfected. He just hoped he was good enough to pass. Raina always said he was a terrible liar, but she knew him better than anyone so maybe…
Rupert smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m counting on you.”
Rowan managed a wan smile in return, exhaling slowly. “I know.”
“I’m proud of you.”
It felt like a knife to the gut every time he said it, even though Rowan knew he meant well.
“Thanks.”
Rowan escaped the bathroom feeling like he had run an emotional marathon.
He searched for Milo in the expensive, dimly lit space on instinct. He didn’t know why. If he was searching for an anchor then Milo definitely wasn’t a steady weight—he was more like a kite that had had the string cut and been caught up in a gust of wind. But as soon as he found that bright head in the crowd he felt better, more focused.
Maybe Rowan was the anchor and Milo needed to attach himself.
He settled back down at their table, which was coincidentally only one table over from Milo’s. Rowan’s seat was even facing that way, and he could see Milo over his mother’s shoulder.
He scanned the rest of the people at the table curiously and found the average age was about seventy. These people were Milo’s hoard. Other than their advanced age, Rowan had never seen a more mismatched set of people. Which fit Milo perfectly.
Except one guy, who didn’t seem to fit in at all.
He was a little older than Milo, possibly late thirties, if Rowan had to guess. He was handsome and had a winning smile and Rowan decided on the spot that he didn’t like him one bit.
He had been blocked by Rowan’s mother’s head, but he’d revealed himself when he’d leaned over to whisper into Milo’s ear, making him laugh out loud.
“Why are you scowling, my little Snugglescales?”
Rowan was ripped back to reality by that god-awful childhood nickname, and he met his mother’s earnest red eyes under her curly bangs. She had a silk headband on that matched her dress, with a pattern of white lilies across the blue fabric.
“Mother, please.”
