Page 32 of Origins
“I can’t,” Miles responded sadly as he tore apart another buttery breadstick.
Of course he couldn’t! He was much too young to order alcohol! He wasn’t of age, and Damen was basically a cop.
I was a stickler for following the rules, and would never dream of breaking the law. We could be imprisoned and kicked out of school for something like this. Our futures would be in shambles. Not only was I in big trouble with Finn, now I had this to worry about.
“My sister is working in the kitchen today,” Miles added. “Youmight be able to do what you want, but you know full well that she thinks wine is only an evening drink.” Miles sighed, staring at his breadstick with a look of longing. “She’d kill me if she saw me ordering some.”
I had been sipping water as he spoke, and I ended up in a coughing fit at his words. Both men turned their attention toward me, concerned. Miles began to pat my back, trying to help me breathe, while Damen uselessly held up a napkin in my face.
I was too disturbed to pay much attention, though. I shot Miles an incredulous look the second I caught my breath. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” Miles nodded, his expression grave. “Colette religiously holds to certain beliefs about proper food etiquette—–like the way food and drinks should be paired. When it’s her turn in the kitchen—”
“That’s not what I meant!” I poked his chest, too horrified at the corruption of our youth to consider the repercussions of my actions—or to dwell on the serious pectoral hardness beneath my finger. “You shouldn’t be ordering alcohol, anyway! You aren’t old enough, and Damen ispracticallypolice!”
Damen raised an amused eyebrow, but didn’t respond.
However, Miles smirked and leaned toward me—his brown eyes mischievous. “J'ai vécu en France pendant trois ans.”
I pulled back my hand in disbelief, as Miles was now speaking to me in French. This entire situation was getting even more bizarre by the minute. “What did you say?”
“I lived in France with my mother when I was twelve until I was fifteen.” Miles grabbed my retreating hand and kissed my fingertip. “My sister grew up there as well. But she studied culinary arts in Italy before moving to America. She’s the head chef here—this is her restaurant.”
My eyes were large as I stared at him, and I distinctly heard Damen chuckle from across the table. Out of all the guys—even Titus—Miles was the one who had the stereotypical all-American look to him. I never would have thought he’d lived in a foreign country.
Besides, what did that even have to do with anything?
I tried to get back on topic. “But that doesn’t make it right. You are inAmericanow. You can’t legally drink until you’re twenty-one.”
“Relax.” Miles released my hand and draped his arm over my shoulders. “The drinking ages here are such an American rule. It’s not the end of the world. Who is going to tell?”
Could he be that naive? Visions of imprisonment and justice swarmed through my mind, and I couldn’t talk. Instead, I pointed toward Damen with a shaking finger.
Damen shrugged nonchalantly as he accepted a refill from the sommelier, who apparently had heard enough of our conversation to find this all very funny. As the man left, I was left wondering what was wrong with these guys. Damen was involved with the police. Miles wanted to be a lawyer. This was a dis—
“Bianca,relax. It’s not good for you to be so anxious all the time.” Damen lifted his glass, swirling it gently. “There is absolutely nothing to get upset about.”
Miles pulled me closer to him, trying to reassure me. “What are you worried about anyway? First of all, I’m not going to be ineligible for the bar exam because I had a sip of wine.”
I wanted to point out that he had actually downed half the glass, which was equivalent to a large sip, but Miles moved on before I found my voice. “And no one is going to tell anyway. Everyone here is…” he paused briefly as he seemed to consider the phrasing, “a friend.”
Afriend?
That certainly sounded suspicious. People weren’tfriendswith establishments. Only super rich, snobby people were like that. I knew these guys were loaded, but I didn’t think they were that influential.
I narrowed my eyes at him, about to call him out on his lies, when a familiar silky voice cut into our conversation.
“Sorry I’m late,” Titus’ smooth baritone shot a shiver down my spine. A fraction of a second later he stepped into my view, unbuttoning the top of his shirt as he slid into the seat beside Damen. “I had to escape from Maria. She said I had other priorities this afternoon.”
Damen nodded, as if that made perfect sense, and greeted Titus in return.
Meanwhile, panic rose inside me. Even though I suspected Titus was the missing guest, the fact that he was actually here was entirely different.
Titus. Lumberjack, Mafia Titus washere? Even more than that, why was he late exactly? Did he have Mafia business to attend to first? He didn’t appear to be covered in blood. And who was Maria—his girlfriend from a rival gang? That sounded so cliché.
Why did I even care?
I stared at him with mixed emotions, but Titus barely spared me a glance as he nodded in my direction and greeted Miles with a grin.
