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She turns away from me and starts speaking to Sullivan.
“So, Sullivan, you’re the halfback? That’s interesting.”
Before Sullivan can say anything, I snort and interject, “Halfback? What does that mean? All I can think about is a half-rack of ribs.”
Nova gives me a disgusted look.
Sullivan laughs. “My primary responsibility as halfback is blocking. I protect the quarterback or whoever happens to have the ball. I’m also an eligible receiver so sometimes I get to run the ball.”
I look away. I was hoping the halfback was more of a benched player, but of fucking course not.
Nova leans into him with interest, which pisses me off more because I know she has no real interest in him and is only trying to get a rise out of me, which is unfortunately working.
The waiter shows up to take our drink orders and for the moment Nova can no longer train her attention on Sullivan.
When the waiter leaves to get our drinks, conversation ceases while we all look at the menu. I keep darting furtive glances at Nova, which she studiously ignores.
I’ve never been this torn up and confused in my life.
I don’t know what I want.
But I do.
But I don’t.
Fuck.
My eyes scan the menu, but I don’t see the words.
Nova’s arm brushes mine and she jumps away. When I glance over I note the goosebumps dotting her arm.
She can pretend all she wants that I don’t affect her, but it’s a lie and we both know it. I’m as potent to her as she is to me.
The waiter appears with our drinks, and I lift my fancy-pants beer to my lips. I fucking hate this kind of beer, dark and rich tasting—and by rich I do mean in the money sense and not the actual taste. Any time I’m forced to go to some event or function for my dad, it’s this kind of beer and wine as the drink options, which led me to hating it. But, of course, a nice restaurant like this only has this and not my usual go-to.
Figures.
Now I have to drink this disgusting stuff and listen to Nova prattle on and on to Sullivan.
It’s like my own personal hell or something.
I flip the thick pages of the menu and finally settle on a steak, figuring I can’t go wrong with that.
We place our orders and conversation buzzes around us.
“How’s the bar?” Cade asks me after a few minutes.
I lift my eyes and look across the table at him with a shrug. “Same old, same old. I like it there.”
“What about your music?” he asks. “How’s that going?”
Again, I shrug. “Just writing and playing when I can.”
All I’ve wanted since I was a junior in high school was to make a go of my music. My father was steadfastly against it, wanting me to follow in his footsteps. I haven’t talked to him in years except for the rare occasions where he calls and forces me to attend some function because it makes him look good in the media and around other politicians if he appears to be a loving family man. But he’s as far from a loving family man as it’s possible to get. I wouldn’t even attend those functions if I didn’t know the consequences weren’t worth the defiance.
But my defiance by not following in his footsteps was worth every hate-filled word he lobbed my way.
No fucking way was I going to wear a suit and tie every day and deal with other politicians. That life isn’t for me.
