I shouldn’t be thinking about either of them, though, and that only makes me feel worse. I’m so tired of all this bullshit.
Running a frustrated hand through my hair, I push open the car door and force myself to walk to the dorm Hannah lives in.
When I reach the front entrance, I lean against the wall and pull out my phone. My finger hovers over her contact details for a moment before I finally grow a pair and make the call.
“Hey,” I croak out when she answers. “I’m here.”
Less than five minutes later, we’re in Jasper’s car heading to the restaurant I booked. Hannah’s floral perfume is cloying, but I fight the urge to roll down the window. Our conversation is stilted and awkward, and sweat beads between my shoulder blades as I ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me to turn around and take her home. I’m committed to this, and I need her to stop me from doing something that could fuck my life up completely.
“Wow,” Hannah breathes when I pull up in front of Birch House, a renovated homestead turned into one of Beckford’s fanciest restaurants. “I’ve always wanted to come here.”
I hum in response, ignoring how wrong this feels as I climb out of the car and rush to open her door and help her out of the car. Her eyes widen when I offer her my hand, but good manners were drilled into me since I was young.
Even though I want nothing more than to wrench my hand away, I force myself to lace my fingers in hers as I close the door and lock the car. I lead her up the steps, grinding my teeth at the clicking of her heels against the old timber boards. White fairy lights wind up the veranda posts, and soft jazz hums through the open windows. This is not my scene at all.
I feel terrible.
Hannah’s a beautiful girl—petite, with wavy blonde hair that catches the light when she turns her head to smile at me. Her makeup is soft, with just enough to make her pale green eyes stand out. She looks perfect standing besideme in her purple sundress, like she belongs in a place like this. The perfect future wife for an oil tycoon’s grandson.
I swallow, trying to ignore how her hand is too soft in mine, her fingers too delicate. Every part of me knows I should want this—I should want someone like her—and I hate that I don’t.
After giving my name to the hostess, we’re led to a table near the window overlooking the manicured gardens, the last of the evening light spilling over the lawns. I pull out Hannah’s chair before sitting down opposite her, and her eyes widen again, like she’s not used to anyone bothering with small courtesies. The sparkle there makes me feel worse—like she’s seeing something in me that isn’t real.
I’m nothing but a lie.
When the waiter hands us our menus, I’m grateful for the distraction. Birch House offers simple food with a fancy twist, and my mouth waters as I run my eye over the options—we order the slow-cooked lamb with native herbs for her, and the barramundi on cauliflower purée for me.
Once the waiter disappears, she leans forward, resting her chin on her hand.
“You know,” she says, a teasing smile tugging on her lips, “you’re not as much of an arsehole as I thought you were.”
I blink. “Thanks… I think?”
She laughs. “At your party the other week, when you called me Molly, I figured you were just another cocky soccer player who can’t keep up with the names of all the girls he hooks up with. Guess I was wrong.”
I cringe. “Sorry about that. But honestly, there haven’t been many girls at all. I’m too focused on school and soccer to have time for anything else.”
It’s a subtle hint that I don’t see this going any furtherthan dinner tonight, but I immediately realise my mistake when her smile widens.
“Not many girls, huh? Guess that makes me pretty special?”
Shit.
Thankfully, our drinks are delivered, and I get out of answering by chugging half of my Coke. Coach Johnson would kick my arse if he found out I’d been drinking the night before a game, date or no date.
“So,” I say lamely, “You’re studying business?”
She nods, twirling her straw between her fingers. “Yeah. Majoring in marketing. It’s not exactly thrilling, but I’m hoping to get into brand management or social media marketing. Maybe for a fashion label or something in lifestyle. I like the idea of creating an image people buy into.”
I nod politely.
“Your grandad is Samuel Bentley, right? I assume you’re being groomed to take over the family business?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. I don’t hide who I am. That doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of my family when I’m only on this date to distract myself from doing something Dad won’t approve of.
Hannah’s astute, though, and she shoots me a warm smile. “I get the family pressure. My grandma is Christina Finlay.”
My eyes widen. “The Minister for Resources?”
