“Not like that,” I blurted.
He paused to glance up at me.
“If you want to step into my parents’ world, you’ll need to act the part.” I gestured at him. “This old-money aesthetic is a good start, but there are little things that will give you away, hint that you’re not one of them. They’ll never accept anyone they suspect is a fraud.”
“Elaborate,” he said.
I dragged the bread plate closer and picked up my own utensils, fork in my left hand, knife in my right. “Like this,” I said, demonstrating the European way of holding your silverware. I cut through a piece of bread, positioning my fork just so as I lifted it toward my lips. Instead of popping it in my mouth, I set it back down.
“You should eat that,” Theo said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You look like you should be,” he muttered, switching his fork to his left hand and cutting into his chicken.
I blinked, simmering in silent outrage. I’d heard snide remarks like that my whole life.Eat a burger,was a frequent comment on my Instagram posts. I’d stopped trying to explain myself to people. It wasn’t any of their business why I was underweight, why trying to put on pounds was nearly impossible, how any weight Iwasable to gain never stuck because my kind of chronic illness wasn’t visible to the naked eye.
God, IwishedI were hungry, but all I felt was nauseated because my stomach was currently an acid-filled nightmare. This spike of stress had triggered my gastritis, and for the past few days, I’d been doing everything in my power to avoid a full-blown flare-up.
My stomach burned, but I’d already taken my emergency meds, and now there was nothing left for me to do but take small sips of water to dilute the acid until I could get out of here and, hopefully, find some way to calm down.
Not that I was going to tell Theoany of this; I wasn’t about to hand him more ammunition to use against me.
“I ate before I came,” I told him, pushing away the plate of bread.
“Sure,” he said, sounding like he didn’t believe me.
The word felt like a slap to the face. Him constantly taunting me was bad enough. I had no idea how I was going to pretend to be his girlfriend if I had to endure this level of casual cruelty on top of it.
“What else?” Theo said.
“What else, what?” I asked.
“What else do I need to know to blend in?”
“Lose the jacket. It’s trying too hard.”
He shoved another forkful of food into his mouth before shrugging out of the garment. I could immediately tell it was the right move. His linen shirt was nice, the heavier drape of it highlighting his muscles without making him look too big. If he could just keep his fucking mouth shut, he might fit in perfectly. There was something about his features that lent him a kind of aristocratic beauty. The lush shape of his mouth. His aquiline nose. Paired with his blond hair, he’d look right at home on horseback in the English countryside.
“I can’t believe I’m taking fashion advice from Bondage Barbie,” he muttered, setting the jacket aside.
“Just because I favor black clothing doesn’t mean I don’t understand fashion. You want to ignore me and risk immediately getting spotted as an interloper, go right ahead, farm boy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Farm boy?”
“Oh, please,” I said. “You think I can’t hear traces of your Yooper accent when you say certain things? Especially when you’re being a prick. It brings out your lingering rhoticity in any word ending with an r.”
“Rhoticity,” he repeated. “Sounds like one of your fancy prep school words.”
“It is.” No sense in denying it. I’d had a superior education. At least, when I’d actually gone to school. “It means your ‘r’ sounds are pronounced. Like car,” I said, putting extra emphasis on the end of the word.
“Noted. Anything else you want to point out?”
“Not especially, no.” From his sharp tone, it was clear I’d pushed my luck by being so blunt.
Theo released a prolonged sigh and schooled his features. “No, really. Continue. I need to know everything I can.”
I eyed him, feeling like this might be another trap. The restaurant had dimmed the overhead lights even further, and between the deeper shadows and warm candlelight, he looked like something out of a Renaissance painting. My focus dropped to his lips. I hated that I knew how they felt against mine. Hated that my mind kept circling back to our kiss. Not because I wanted to do it again. Fuck, no. It was because I was furious with myself for letting it happen.
