"You're late." He clears his throat and sips a glass of ice water. “This is why I wanted to send a car for you. You wouldn’t have been late if you would have listened to me.”
I want to run away.
"I got lost," I say, sliding into the chair across from him. I tug my sleeves down over my wrists. "I’m sorry."
He doesn’t acknowledge the apology. Instead, he just lifts his glass of wine and takes a sip, looking down his nose at me. "I already ordered for us. You’ll be having the filet mignon. Medium rare. It’s the best thing on the menu."
My stomach twists. "I don’t eat meat."
He waves a dismissive hand. "You’ll like it."
I blink. "I really won’t. I haven’t had red meat since sixth grade."
He doesn’t respond.
Instead, he leans forward and says, "Your parents and your brother are on board with this little arrangement between us. After what happened last weekend, they’re concerned about your ability to make sound choices."
I roll my eyes, biting my bottom lip to keep from saying something he can use against me. I don’t need a lecture from my almost-arranged fiancé. And I definitely don’t need him bringing up the mansion, like what happened there was my fault. Vincentwasn’t there that night, and he has no idea what he’s talking about.
"Don’t bite your lip. That," he says smoothly, "is not a very becoming expression. Especially on such a pretty face."
My jaw tightens.
I open my mouth to tell him, again, that I’m not interested in an arranged marriage. I’m not even curious why he is interested in any of this. Surely he could flash his money at most of the girls in The Falls, and they’d be down to eat dead animals with him in an overpriced restaurant. I wonder if he thinks I’m playing hard-to-get or if he knows that I’m here because my parents threatened to pull me out of school if I didn’t come. That I’d rather walk into traffic than entertain the idea of marrying him. But before I can get a word out the entrance door opens, and I instantly see him out of my peripherals.
Callum. Gray sweatpants, backward hat, and the demeanor of a rabid wildebeest.
He strides into the restaurant like he owns it, like he was summoned by the devil himself. He’s not in sweats or jeans. His dark hair peeks out from the edges of his hat, eyes locked on mine like he’s letting me know that he’s not leaving here without me.
He winks at me, and I forget how to breathe.
Callum drops into the chair next to me, all easy smiles, like this is normal. Like he belongs here. Like he isn’t going to blow this entire evening up from the inside out.
Vincent bristles. "Excuse me, we’re in the middle of a private dinner."
Callum doesn’t even glance at him. "Yeah? Well, you’re not anymore."
I flick my gaze toward the door and spot Tristan lurking near the host stand. Our eyes meet and he rolls his big green eyes, pointing to the watch on his wrist and then makes a side spiralmotion with his pointer finger. I widen my eyes and nearly laugh at his absurdity. Like, I’m so sorry that my night of hell is an inconvenience to him and I’ll try to wrap up my mortification as soon as possible. Of course Callum brought backup. But not Hayden, I notice. No, because if Hayden had come, there would already be broken plates and probably some broken furniture.
Vincent glares. "If you don’t mind, we’re on a date?—"
"Oh, Idomind," Callum cuts in, still smiling, but his eyes are trained on his opponent. "And you’re not on a date. Now run along."
The waitress arrives, setting two plates on the table. Mine is a slab of bloody steak.
Callum shoves it away from me with disgust. "She doesn’t eat meat."
The waitress stammers, looking between us like she’s confused if she should even listen to Callum.
Vincent’s jaw ticks. "Your parents are going to be very disappointed in how this evening has turned out."
Callum picks up Vincent’s wine glass and swirls it elegantly, something I’m sure he learned from watching my parents, before he splashes it in his face.
"I’d think twice before threatening her."
Vincent slams his napkin onto the table. His face twists in irritation, but then something cruel flickers across his features. He looks between us, eyes narrowed, then says, loud enough for several nearby tables to hear, "Are you fucking Lilac? Is that what this is about? Pissing on your territory like a dog?"
A hush falls over the immediate area. Forks pause midair. Heads turn.
