Page 51 of Keep Me Never
Yet this man, this fairy-tale-looking fucker who works with her grandfather, just so happens to be at the same event, eight hours away from where he should have been the very same night that she was?
Mr. Randolph looks over, meeting my gaze.
Not fucking likely.
My mind is racing.
I hadn’t thought to ask Paige how she knew Prescott the night I met him. He seemed to have teleported in at the worst time possible, and I started spiraling, much like I’m doing now.
He won’t stop looking at her, smiling and laughing, and sure, their conversation is nothing more than polite small talk, dumb shit that doesn’t matter, but it matters to me.
I didn’t know she liked two sugar cubes and a tablespoon of honey in her hot tea, but I learned that little fact today, watched with rapt attention as her delicate little hands scooped them up and dropped them in, grinning as they dissolved.
I smiled to myself, storing that little bit of information and wondering if you can buy those cubes somewhere or if they only serve them in fancy spots like this one. But I wasn’t the only one paying attention because the moment she gripped the handle to go in for the first taste, Prescott laughed, ordering his own cup because he “had to try it the Paige way.” Slick fucker.
Only he doesn’t act slick or even privileged. He gave a polite smile to the woman who greeted us at the door and complimented the guy who showed us to our table. Says please and thank you and “if it’s not too much trouble.”
Clearly I’ve been paying attention to the guy, and from what I can tell, he’s just this charming, friendly dude. It’s annoying. It’s worse how effortlessly at ease he is, sitting back in his seat with this air of professionalism and perfect posture. It’s like even thesechairs are made for men like him, his shoulders lining up perfectly with the high golden back.
And then there’s me, slouching forward a bit because my shoulders are a few inches too high, too wide, the edges of the chair back digging into my shoulder blades. I’ve got to keep my legs spread a little wider than I’d like because my thighs are thicker than what the small square under my ass was built for.
No, this place isn’t for athletes.
It’s for fucking accountants or some shit.
My eyes move to Paige, laughing at something her grandfather said, and I reconsider. Okay, well, it’s not meant for the type of athlete that I am. Of course, my petite little dancer?—
No. Not mine.
Shit.
Whatever, Paige looks like she belongs. She’s dainty and elegant without trying, fitting with the softness of this café and the people scattered around it.
She looks my way, our eyes locking, and my lips tip up.
“What do you think?” she asks.
My face falls, and I cut a quick glance around the table, finding all their eyes on me, but I return mine to her. “What?”
She nips at her lip and my eyes fall to the movement. “Do you want to try the salmon rolls? Prescott said we can’t come here without doing so.”
What the fuck is a salmon roll?
I was prepared for some scrambled eggs and maybe an English muffin with strawberry jelly, if it didn’t cost extra. Salmon?
Panic bleeds into my veins, and I look to the lemon water they gave me without my asking. Shit, what if that’s some imported water from a glass bottle you have to pay for?
I should just get up and go.
“I told him I’d rather eat dirt than fish,” Paige says. My eyes snap to her face, just in time to see her give a little cringe. “I’mgoing with the only thing I can pronounce on this menu. A good old-fashioned grilled cheese off the kid’s menu.”
“Paige, sweetheart, no.” Her grandfather sounds horrified but I’m already chuckling, soaking in the smile she gives me in return.
She’s like you, Chase. She is.
“Sweetheart, don’t make me look cheap.” Mr. Randolph turns to me, his face scrunched like he’s asking for help. “Son, at least let me buy you a steak, so the staff doesn’t think I’m going broke.”
“Not likely with that piece on your wrist,” Prescott chimes in, and I watch as he takes his napkin, lowering it onto his lap.
