“Huh. Right. If you haven’t noticed, these things are fucking boring. And filled with married women who are either bugging me about bringing a date, or propositioning me in the bathrooms.”
“You and bloody bathrooms.” I’m reminded of the first time I saw him this year—with the orange girl. “You didn’t seem to mind that venue in April.”
“I’m talking about unwelcome attention here. That thing at Vantage Point with Chelsea was totally welcome.”
“Kelsey,” I correct him, contemplating giving him a wedgie just to get that too-amused smile off his face.
“Whatever. Look, let’s not forget there is that little thing of you devaluing my car on Saturday, so you owe me tonight.”
“I’ve had one driving lesson.”
“With nine more to come. Tell me you’re a fast learner, Hay-gen.”
“Depends on the teacher.”
He narrows his eyes at me, then downs the rest of his wine in one big swallow. His gaze flicks around the room before he lowers it to study his empty glass. I look around the room myself and catch so many female faces looking away. I never imagined being good looking really was a curse, but Keats definitely doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself very much right now.
“That waitress keeps looking at you. Another ex-girlfriend?” The hum of voices, made louder with each glass of alcohol consumed, means our conversation stays between us.
He follows the direction I tip my juice towards.
“That’s Jada—the one Byron dumped for Isabella. I didn’t realise she was working here tonight.”
“She got the hots for you or something? She keeps looking this way.”
Keats shakes his head. “Probably just wants to talk to me about Byron. She took the break-up hard—keyed the side panel of his car, and been trying to get back with him ever since. I don’t know how that little shit does it, but women love him. Look who I’m talking to—his other stalker.”
I roll my eyes at Keats but don’t bother to correct his assumption. If he only knew who I’m really tempted to stalk. “I thought when you said I had to come with you to a work dinner that it’d be more fun and relaxing.”
He shrugs, obviously used to getting his way.
“Tell me I’m here more than to act as your human shield to boredom and unwanted women’s attention,” I say.
“Payback’s a bitch, Hay-gen.” He winks at me. “Anyhow, as it turns out, I’m really killing two birds with one stone here—I also want to talk to you about something.”
Oh, God.
“What else do you want to know about Isabella?” I sound resigned to my own ears.
“Not her. Mom. A man called our house last night.”
“Don rang?”
“No…”
I can almost see his brain ticking, as he realises there’s more than one man interested in his mother.
“No, it was Bob.”
“Oh, him? I wouldn’t worry about him.”
Keats’ eyes widen at my flippant response. “Where is my mother meeting all these men?”
My website.
When I don’t say anything, Keats continues, “I told you, she’s not ready.”
“She’s not or you’re not? Aren’t you glad Heather’s smiling again? Are you worried you can finally move back to your own house? Which bit about your mother getting a life is bad for you?”
“The part where one of those assholes breaks her heart again and she takes it worse than when Dad left.”
There’s real concern in his baby blue eyes, the emotion making something in my chest ache.
“Look, Hay-gen, the bank’s sending me to L.A. for the next two weeks. My flight’s tomorrow morning. Please don’t let Mom marry some guy while I’m gone.”
My heart instantly sinks at the news he’s leaving again, and I supress the urge to sigh heavily. I almost don’t hear what he says after it. How did I survive years not seeing him? I’m not used to needing someone like this. Have I missed my chance to bed him with no lingering attachments?
I pull myself together for a retort. “I don’t hold that much sway in Heather’s life at all. Plus, she’s a grown woman, Keats.”
“But she listens to you. Please just watch her while I’m away, all right?”
How can I say no when he’s looking at me with those sexy eyes? And now that I know Keats better, I realise he’s letting me see something he doesn’t often reveal—how concerned he is for his mother.
Before I can answer, a dinner bell rings. Keats gets halfway through an exasperated sigh before he seems to remember where he is.
“Let’s get to our seats.” My stomach is ready to growl at any moment.
There’s a seating chart in a gaudy frame on a matching easel by the entrance to the dining hall. Keats and I join the back of the line. Everyone looks eager to find their names on the list. There are only twenty of us. You’d think we could just plop ourselves down wherever.
By the time we reach the frame, everyone else is already sitting down or standing by their allocated seats like it’s musical chairs and the seats furthest from Ms Wilsborough are out of the game. Judging by the control Keats’ boss’ wife wields, those must be our allocated seats. And judging by Keats’ brief devastated expression before he gets a hold of himself, this is definitely not a good sign.
He untucks my chair for me and I look at it for a second. Oh, he’s being a gentleman.
“Um, thanks,” I say as I sit down.
He shrugs one shoulder with a smile and takes his own seat. I look around us. Isabella has told me about the dinner party that Keats took her to after they’d only been dating a week. Apparently, Wilsborough sits people close to her when she wants to talk to them. Of course, my high achieving friend got top marks, and she and Keats were awarded with the spot right next to the snooty old cow at the head of the table. Story of my life—the poor seats—I’ve taken Keats down with me and he looks kind of pissed
