We finish off our bottles, and he picks up the pitcher, filling the cups almost to the brim.
“What’s in this?” I peer at the red liquid then inhale. My brows arch at the strong scent of tequila.
“I don’t know. It’s called a ‘Christmas Miracle.’”
I snort and clink my glass against his. “Cheers to that.”
His face brightens, and right as he’s about to take a sip, he pulls his glass away. “And for parental issues. I love that for us.”
I take a small sip and recoil, squeezing my eyes shut as the liquid burns and settles in my stomach. “Holy shit.”
His eyes flutter, shoulders going taut. “Jesus, someone’s heavy-handed.” Despite that, he still proceeds to take another long drink.
“It’s your turn to share yourparental issueswith me.” I laugh a little, taking small sips of my drink until I’m able to tolerate it.
He slouches back and drags his fingers through his hair.
“Don’t tell me you’re regretting it? Come on.” I poke his side, in awe of how hard it is. “I told you. Now you have to tell me.”
“It’s really nothing.”
I give him a deadpan look. “I’m not going to judge.” I poke him again.Wow, he’s firmallover. “It must be bad if you had to lie to them and tell them I’m your girlfriend.”
Sylas goes stiff then exhales a ragged breath. “I’m sorry about that.” He takes a drink, followed by another. “My parents are…domineering.” He drags his tongue along his teeth. “The girl I told you about, at the auction…”
“The blonde?”
He nods. “Florence. Theyreallywant us to happen.”
“Is this a keeping-it-in-the-circle kind of thing?” I say to lighten the mood.
His lips jerk up a smidge. “Something like that.”
“The wholewe hate youlook makes sense now,” I quip.
“I’m sorry. Again. They’re?—”
I wave a hand. “It’s okay. I’m not offended. I work at Clover’s”—it’s the kind of expensive, by-reservation-only restaurant celebrities dine at—“and I’m a housekeeper. I’ve seen and heard it all. I’m really fine, but areyouokay?”
He looked like he was struggling for air, like he was close to a panic attack. I hated knowing he was feeling that way and his parents were to blame.
I would know; my parents bring out the worst in me.
“Oh me? Yeah, I’m good.” He grins, all boyish and ambivalent. “They stress me out a bit, but I’m used to it. I was mostly worked up because, you know, I’m not smoking anymore, so the change is different.”
While I believe the nicotine withdrawal might’ve been the reason behind the way he acted, I know it’s not the sole reason.
“I’m sorry.” The words are out and my hand is on his forearm before I can stop myself.
“Hey, no pity. Remember?” Sylas pierces me with a look. He’s trying to make himself look serious, but he just looks adorable and sad. “They’re not terrible. They just carea lot.”
So much that he was anxious? He can’t seriously believe that’s okay.
He must be able to read my thoughts—or I’m sporting the expression he was earlier—because he says, “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything. But thanks for helping me out.”
“It’s not stupid, and don’t worry about it. I won’t even be mad if you tell them you broke up with me.” I muse on that thought for a moment. “You weren’t kidding. Cheers to parental issues.” I clink my glass against his. “Our parents are shit.”
He smiles down at me, and the light reflecting off the disco ball bathes him in a sparkly kaleidoscope of colors. “Cheers to that.”
