“It’s against my will,” Dad said. “I hate movies.”
“What?” I squawked.
Damien chuckled. “What would you prefer to do?”
My dad shuffled back into the living room, and Damien went with him, leaving me out in the hall, holding the front door open for no one. What the hell was going on here? I closed the door and marched after them, into the living room.
“—with Paula Zahn,” my father said. “Or anything with that raspy guy. The old one who does all those nature shows?”
“David Attenborough.” Damien clicked his fingers.
“That’s the guy.”
“Yeah, he’s great. Have you seen Blue Planet?”
“No,” Dad replied, “but I’ve always wanted to. Those nature documentaries are so relaxing.”
“I have the entire box set.” Damien sat on our tattered sofa across from my dad, who’d lowered himself into his armchair. They’d muted the TV in the interim.
I walked over and tucked the blanket around my father, but he was too busy chatting to Damien to even notice the help. Mr. Piddlywump meowed his way into the room too and took a running jump onto the sofa. He purred and bopped his kitty head against Damien’s arm, who immediately started stroking and scratching behind my cat’s ears, absently.
Had I just entered an alternate universe? Since when did Damien get on with my father? And Piddlywump, the traitor, was supposed to be on my side.
I made kss, kss noises at my cat but received nothing but a yellow-eyed stare in return.
“I’ll bring it to you after we get back from dinner,” Damien said, to my father.
“What now?”
“The Blue Planet box set.” Dad smiled at me. “He’s going to lend it to me.”
“Shoot, you can have it,” Damien said. “I can get another one easily. Won’t be any trouble, Mr. McCutcheon.” He shot me one of his devilish grins.
“You sure?” Dad asked. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“Of course I’m sure. No problem at all. I’ll give it to Hazel to give to you.”
“Give it to me?” I choked.
“After dinner.” Damien’s shit-eating grin grew wider by the second. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“What? No. But—”
“Nut, you’d better get changed if you’re going out,” Dad said, flashing me a smile and lifting the remote. He flicked through the channels until he settled on a crime documentary. “You can’t go to dinner wearing your SpongeBob T-shirt.”
I placed a hand on SpongeBob’s face, covering him from the horror of what’d just ensued. “I can’t go to dinner, Dad. I’m spending tonight with you, remember?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Why would you want to spend another night in front of the TV with boring old Dad when you can be out with a handsome young man like Damien?”
Why have you betrayed me, Father? Was this my Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader moment? He might as well have cut off my hand. “I—Dad, I—”
“I’ve got something for you to wear,” the talking Cheshire cat said from the sofa. “I’ll have Geoff bring it in from the car. In fact, I’ll send him back to my apartment to grab the Blue Planet box set now. That way you can enjoy it tonight, Mr. McCutcheon.”
“You’re the son I never had,” my father said, laughing.
I growled low in my throat and pushed up from the chair. Damien was the devil himself—he’d found my one weakness and exploited it.
“I’ll get that dress.” He got up and headed for the door, winking at me along the way, Mr. Piddlywump chasing after him and meowing for attention.
11
Damien
Tonight couldn’t have gone to plan any better.
I’d given her father the Blue Planet box set then hung around chatting to him until Hazel had emerged from her bedroom, wearing the slinky cocktail dress I’d brought along for her. It was indigo, plunging low at the front, almost to her navel and cut halfway up the thigh. It clung to her every curve—impossible to wear underwear in that.
Not that getting her out of her panties had been the plan. I wanted her to look and feel gorgeous, not only because it would pay to have her feel what it was like to have money for my plan, but because she deserved a little fun.
She sat across from me in the French dining chair in the Plaza, occasionally twirling her champagne flute by the stem and glancing around nervously at the other diners.
Couples, old and young, sat at the tables, wining and dining. A few of the women eyed me when their husbands weren’t looking, but I ignored the attention as I always did.
Tonight, I was all about wooing Hazel… in the professional sense.
“This place is ridiculous,” she said, after a second, taking a fortifying sip of her champagne then putting it down. Hazel opened her menu and scanned the entrées. “I can’t believe I agreed to come here with you.”
“I told you to be ready by eight.” I sipped my beer, gesturing with the glass. “Just be glad I decided not to cancel the reservation.”
She gritted her teeth, chewing on the “fuck you” that was surely on the tip of her tongue. “Do you always have to be so objectionable?” she asked. “What’s the point? Why irritate me?”
“I’m not trying. Have you ever considered that you just have a low tolerance level?”
“For your crap? Yeah, I do.”
The waiter appeared to take our orders, and I went for the walnut and beetroot risotto, while Hazel took her sweet time stressing about how much everything cost.
“The duck is good,” I said, over the rim of my glass.
“The duck.” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the price on the menu. “That’s…”
“It’s good. My treat, Hazel. We’re here for business, remember? I asked you. It’s common practice for the offering party to pay.”
“Right. OK,” she said, lifting her perfect chin. “Right, the duck, please.” I pictured trailing sloppy kisses down her throat and popping one of her breasts free of that dress.
The waiter sniffed and removed our menus, pulling the usual snobby bullshit
