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She cups my cheek, patting me with her palm. “You’re a good boy.”
If anyone asks, I’d tell them I’m not a mummy’s boy, but there’s something about making your mum happy that has a wide grin spreading at my lips. Even at twenty-one I hate the thought of disappointing her, although, I probably do it daily.
“It’s a shame, though.” She sighs, a wistful look on her face as she glances at the photos on the wall opposite us. I don’t need to follow her gaze to see what one has her attention. “Is Fallon definitely not coming?”
“Nope,” I tell her, shrugging not bothering to elaborate.
“She wasn’t invited, Jennifer,” Gage blurts out before shovelling another forkful into his mouth. My mother turns to my father, glaring at him.
“Is that true, Rowan?” she asks, placing her hands on her hips. Dad’s throat bobs as he harshly swallows. The bloody pussy. One glare from his tiny five-foot-three wife and he’s ready to shit his pants. I swipe a hand down my face, hiding my laughter that will no doubt earn me a whip from the tea towel.
“Yes,” Dad tells her, refusing to look in her direction. “Robert decided it was best for her not to attend.”
“Well, why on earth would he think that?”
“You’d have to ask him,” I tell her, smacking a kiss on her cheek before pulling away and moving upstairs. Talking about Fallon with my mum is always a recipe for disaster and not something I’m willing to entertain right now.
My bedroom door opens easily, and I quickly strip out of my shirt and dress pants that Dad insists I wear whenever we go to his office and chuck on a pair of ripped jeans and a black hoodie.
Gage follows me shortly after, muttering about bickering parents while he makes himself comfortable on my black bed sheets. Rolling my eyes at him, I grab my weed tin and toss it at him. Might as well make himself somewhat useful while he’s here.
“Why is Fallon not invited anyway?” he asks, lighting up his joint and blowing the smoke into the air. I shove my window open, letting the cold air filter through the room. My parents are super chill and don’t care too much about weed and booze in the house, but Mum would kill me if I hotboxed my bedroom.
“Dunno.”
“Why do I feel like you’re not being honest with me?” he says curiously, watching as I make my way across the room and drop down into my desk chair. I swivel around on the wheels, laying my head back when I take a pull of my own joint.
“Because you’re paranoid,” I tell him, staring at him with a cocked brow. “It’s all that weed going to your head.”
“Yeah, you’re probably fucking right.”
We both fall silent, lost in our own shit. It’s only when my phone vibrates from the desk that I open my eyes. When I open the notification, my jaw tightens. It’s a photo of Fallon dressed to the fucking nines in an all-black outfit and heels, looking fucking gorgeous with her hair and make-up done.
That’s not what has my blood boiling, it’s the guy who has his arm thrown over her shoulder, pulling her into a restaurant.
“You okay, man?” Gage asks, sitting up and watching as I toss my phone onto the bed. I can’t do anything about this shit today, but I’m already thinking up ways I can punish her when we get back to the academy.
This should be fun.
“Yeah, I’m fucking fantastic.”
FIFTEEN
ThelittleItalianrestaurantAdam chose for us is lovely, if not a little too intimate for a first date, but then I have to assume that’s what he was going for. The round tables are small, only suitable for couples, and the dim glow coming from the candles around the space makes me think it’s definitely a romance spot and not your everyday dinner spot.
“This is nice, thank you,” I tell him when he pulls my chair out for me. Taking my seat, I place my bag on my lap, ignoring my vibrating phone. I’ve no doubts that it’s Betty wanting updates and to make sure I’m still alive.
“Thank you for coming with me.” He sends me a wink, but the waiter comes by to take our drinks orders before I can think anything of it. I open my mouth to order a drink, but Adam takes over, ordering a bottle of champagne for the table. The waiter’s eyes widen a little, and I can only wonder how much that bottle costs when he rushes off to grab it for us. I watch Adam curiously. He’s obviously got money, considering he studies at Eyam, unless he’s a scholarship student. “Sorry, did you want something different?”
“No, champagne is fine, thanks. Just a surprising choice.”
“Why?” he asks me, a small smile on his face.
“Most nineteen-year-olds are not ordering champagne at dinner.”
“Maybe I’m not like most.”
“I guess not,” I mumble, ignoring the wink and eyebrow waggle he sends my way. I don’t know this guy, but he definitely thinks he’s charming. Though I’m not sure I’d agree, ordering the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu seems more cocky than anything else.
