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Darren turned to Isaiah, who gave him the barest of nods. “Sure. I’ll text you when the show is over.”
“Great!” Max nodded to the exit. “We should leave before the next act starts. Don’t want to walk out while they’re playing.”
“No indeed,” Nico said. When Max walked off, he added, “You owe me. Both of you.”
Darren flopped back in his chair and watched until they’d both left.
“Postmodern?” Isaiah said when they were out of sight.
Darren twisted back until he faced Isaiah. “Your guess is as good as mine. I only met him tonight. But he did seem sincere when he said it.”
Isaiah smirked and, Christ, Darren liked it. “You planned that.”
“Not totally. Nico said he’d float the idea and if Max took the bait, he’d run with it.”
A smile bubbled from inside. “No one’s ever rescued me from a bad date before.”
Isaiah laughed nervously. “You looked miserable.”
“And if Max hadn’t wanted to leave?”
“Then you’d be stuck with him.” Isaiah’s smile morphed into a frown. “I didn’t mean that you’d be stuck . . . I mean . . . you know.”
Darren tucked his head and snickered. “I’d still have been grateful for the attempt.”
The emcee announced the next act, and as they came on stage, Darren motioned to Max’s empty seat. “These are great seats. It’d be nice to sit with someone who can talk to me about the music. Unless sitting with me was just a line?”
“Let me get my drink.” He left before Darren could answer.
Darren picked up his glass and stared at the side Isaiah had used. He had drunk from it without hesitation. He’d gone to lengths to save Darren. How should he interpret that?
He wanted it to mean something. Something more than just helping him out.
It did, didn’t it?
Warmth flushed his cheeks.
Out the corner of his eye, he saw Isaiah returning. His grin lit up the room, and he settled in his seat as the band began their set.
He leaned over. “These guys are good. I’ve heard them before.”
God, he wished he’d said yes to Isaiah instead of asking Max. Even if it wouldn’t have been a date. Before Isaiah could move away, Darren touched his arm. Through his sleeve, he felt Isaiah’s warmth and the small twitch he gave.
Darren’s heart drummed. “Thanks. For helping me, for keeping me company. For thinking to invite me to this.”
“You bet, Golden Boy.” Isaiah winked. “But don’t think this means I’m not still bringing my A game to the competition.”
The reminder had him pulling back his hand. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
They were just friends. No, not even that. Fellow students.
He could live with that.
Totally.
Isaiah
Being early sucked. It gave him too much time to think. And since he had no idea what to do about Darren, he liked not thinking.
His gaze skipped over the bustling café to the door. Darren would be here any moment to work on the fundraiser. He’d stride over to the small table Isaiah had secured and squeeze into his seat. They’d be practically on top of each other, and Isaiah wasn’t going to lie. He kinda hoped it brought back memories of Darren’s unintentional innuendo from their first solo meeting.
Ahhhhh, and there he was again, getting caught up in Darren Gage.
It was just . . . the guy pushed his buttons. All of them. Clichéd as it was, he was smart, funny, hot, and cultured. And, from what Isaiah had seen last Saturday at Caliber, kind and generous too. Not a lot like that among the billionaire boys’ club.
“Why?” he whispered softly. Why did this guy have to be the one standing between him and the Scholar award? No matter how much he liked Darren, losing the position to him would ruin any feelings between them. And, honestly, he had to expect he’d lose.
Like it or not, Darren’s family practically owned the school. Hell, his namesake great-great-grandfather founded Harrison. Toss in that Darren was likeable, smart, and worked hard—there really wasn’t a reason to give it to anyone else.
He stared at his shoulder bag, resting against the leg of the table. Inside was his last paycheck. Three hundred and fifty dollars for ten classes. It’d sounded like good money when he started, but it always ended up being less than he expected.
Ian had sent an email that Isabelle’s soccer cleats were too small, and Mom told her to hold on another couple of weeks until the mortgage was paid. Ian had tried to pay but didn’t have enough either.
The whole email left him gutted. He hated that money was so tight for his mother, hated the fact his seventeen-year-old brother spent his part-time job money on anything other than himself, and he couldn’t stand knowing Isabelle had to do without stuff.
The weight of responsibility made him hyperventilate.
Ian telling him that Mom’s card declined in the store yesterday had slammed home just how tight things were. She’d joked it off on the phone, said payday was tomorrow and it wasn’t so bad.
