Page 34 of Shadows of Nightshade
Neither Miles nor Damen appeared to notice. In fact, Damen was the picture of relaxed sophistication. The V-neck of his burgundy shirt stretched over his chest as he lounged back in his seat, and as he reached across the table to pick up a recently filled glass of wine, a gold chain peeked out from behind the open collar of his jacket.
Miles, in the meantime, was a force of rough sexiness beside me. He managed to remain mannerly even as he savagely ripped a breadstick in half and savored it with great enthusiasm. It was obvious that his weakness was food—something I mentally filed away for later.
Their avoidance of informing me as to whom our lunch date might be made me suspicious.
And so, I brazenly stared at Damen while we waited—hoping that the power of my gaze would make him talk. In response, however, he merely glanced up from his glass.
This time when he smiled, it was obviously meant to disarm me.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” he asked, holding his almost empty glass toward me. “Would you like some?”
My spine straightened as my hackles rose. Who offered someone theirusedglass? I was no germaphobe—or maybe I was only a little—but that was basically kissing.
“N-no, thanks…” I choked out the words. I didn’t want mono, or whatever other college kissing diseases existed these days. Lord only knew where his mouth had been. “I can’t drink. I’m not twenty-one yet.”
“It’s all right.” Miles snatched the glass from Damen’s hand and took a sip. “I’m not either—at least not for another two months. This isn’t bad, but a Riesling would be better,” he stated matter-of-factly before finishing the rest of the glass.
“You’re such a snob.” Damen glared at Miles, but he wasn’t surprised by his behavior. “Don’t tell me this was why you picked this place?”
I stared between them. How could Damen condone public underage drinking? Didn’t he work for the police? Plus, as a university representative and almost-professor, he was also supposed to uphold a certain standard of conduct.
“I was giving it to Bianca,” Damen chided Miles. “If there’s something you want, order it yourself.” He accepted his emptied glass with a sigh as Miles handed it back to him.
“I can’t,” Miles responded, tone dejected, as he tore apart another buttery breadstick.
Of course he couldn’t! He was too young to order alcohol!
The two of them were so reckless—so blind. With all these people staring at them, they’d be discovered. Were they not thinking? We could be imprisoned or kicked out of school. Our futures would be in shambles. Not only was I in big trouble with Finn, but now I had this to worry about.
If they wanted to do bad-boy things, they could at least put some proper thought into it.
“My sister is here today.Youmight be able to do what you want. She doesn’t care what you do. But you know she believes wine is only acceptable to drink after five.” Miles sighed, staring at the now-empty breadstick basket with a look of longing. “She’d kill me.”
I had been sipping water as he spoke, and I choked at his words. Both men turned their attention to me, concerned, andwhile I coughed, Miles awkwardly patted my back. Damen, meanwhile, uselessly held up a napkin in my face.
I shot Miles an incredulous look the second I caught my breath. “Seriously?”
Miles nodded, his expression grave. “Colette has 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. “Who cares about etiquette? You shouldn’t be ordering alcohol, anyway! You aren’t old enough, and Damen is practicallya policeman!”
Damen raised an eyebrow, a tiny grin lifting at the corner of his mouth, 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. His accent had been noticeable from the beginning, but this was the first time I’d heard him speak French. “What did you say?”
“I’m half-French.” Miles grabbed my retreating hand and kissed my fingertip. “I lived in France for three years.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re French,” Damen pointed out, but Miles pretended not to hear him. “Only your mother is French.”
“My sister was there longer than me, though,” Miles continued, ignoring Damen. “Then she studied culinary arts in Italy before moving here. She’s the head chef—this is her restaurant.”
My eyes had to be huge as I stared at him. I didn’t get it. What did that have to do with anything?
I tried to get back on topic, away from this circular reasoning. “But that doesn’t make it right. You’re inAmericanow. You can’t legally drink until you’re twenty-one.”
“Relax.” Miles released my hand and draped his arm over my shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world. Who’s going to tell?”
