Page 123 of The Home Grown
“Fifty scratchcards?” I say, my jaw dropping.
“Yeah, but now I think about, perhaps I should have done twenty-five two-pound cards … or ten fiver cards or?—”
He cuts off, turning to speak to someone on his left before grinning back at the screen.
“Lee isn’t even here yet. Would you believe it?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, apparently, he’s meeting us in a bit, but anyway—what happened with your sister? Did she sort out the money?”
I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, then looking back at Mike.
“No. She wouldn’t see me. I saw Greg, though, told him I didn’t want drama. All I wanted was my money back and, given his reaction, I don’t think he knew about it. Which makes me even more annoyed because I want to know what the hell she did with my money.”
“What?” Mike says. “He didn’t know?”
“He had no idea.”
“So, what now?” he says. “Do you need me to pay her a visit?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not an extortionist.”
“But I can be, for you.” He winks, sending a ripple ofsomethingthrough my body. “Honestly, though, it’s no trouble. I’m back in a few days … need to tell Mam what’s going on, since I told Kelly and?—”
I gasp. Cutting Mike off.
“What did she say?”
“Yeah, all good.” He looks away again, then nods firmly. “I’ve been summoned, Kitch. But I’ll see you when I’m home, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Promise? Because … well, I—I miss you.”
“Are you sure it’s not the beer talking?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“Nah, I do.” His lip tug into a smile and my heart squeezes.
“Miss you, too. But have fun, yeah?”
Then he does this ridiculous show of kissing the camera.
I probably would have been cringing if it were anyone else.
But it’s Mike.
And Mike isn’t just anyone else anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Five
BETTSY
How didI forget the silent treatment is a hell of a lot worse than the glare of disappointment? Honestly, I don’t know how long she’s planning on dragging this out for, but I’m pretty sure she’s got several days in her—more if she’s feeling particularly stubborn.
But Mam being Mam won’t let anyone go hungry—not even me, the son she’s stuck with. The fuck-up. The child who doesn’t think things through. No. She sets down a sandwich on the table with a heavy thud and pulls out a chair. Silent message: sit down and eat. And since I’m not in the mood to fuel her fire and piss her off even more, I do as I’m told.
She stalks back to the kettle, lifting it off the stand and pouring boiling water into three mugs. One for me. One for her. And one for?—
