I’m clothes shopping for myself. But since you mention it, is there a dress code for our date, or will shorts and a t-shirt be okay?
I love you in shorts and a t-shirt, especially when you tie it up at the front.
A long dress and overcoat it is, then.
Wear what you like. You’ll be naked by the time I’m done with you.
Keep dreaming, birthday boy. You paid for a kiss. The rest of the goods are not for sale.
I don’t intend to pay.
Are you going to be this arrogant on our date? Just wondering if I need to bring my headphones.
I’m just teasing. I’ll see you at two and FYI I’m wearing a light-blue suit with a white shirt. If you want to co-ordinate our outfits.
I didn’t know you had a sense of humour. Maybe this date won’t suck after all.
It’ll suck.
A smile curves my lips, hoping he wears the suspenders, then a tingle shoots the length of my spine. Maybe I want to make a small impression. Just a smidge. “I’m getting the dress.”
Chapter Eight
FINN
“Hey, mother.” I tap the phone on speaker while I iron my trousers.
“Darling, what’s going on over there?” Mum’s tone sounds somewhat concerned.
“What do you mean?”
“The papers, darling. You made the headlines. Again.” She sighs. “It says ‘Chancellor’s Son Shells Out 10k on Kissing Auction’.”
“You’re kidding? Wh?—”
“There’s more. ‘While the rest of Britain suffer the rising taxes and cost-of-living crisis, it’s a world away from our chancellor, Ms. Jones, and her family as they fritter away taxpayers’ money on lavish overseas holidays, luxury yachts, and kissing auctions.’”
“The boat was a gift, and it’s a sailing boat. I’d hardly call it a luxury yacht.”
“Forget the boat. Do you know how embarrassing this is for me? I’m trying to do my best here and win thepublic’s trust after the last party left us in the bloody shit. I can’t do that, Finn, if you’re going to land yourself in the press every five bloody minutes.”
“Mum, I?—”
“Please tell me you didn’t spend ten thousand pounds on a kissing auction?”
“It was dollars and?—”
“I sent you to Magnolia Point to work for your father and keep you out of the media, but this has to be the worst stunt you’ve pulled to date. What were you thinking?”
“If you let me?—”
“Does your father know you’re running a riot, spending your trust fund on girls?”
“Mum. Listen.” I place the iron down in its holster. Steam bellows from the bottom and I rub my forehead. “I’m not spending it on girls. It was a charity auction. The money goes into a conservation effort to save sea life and clean up beaches. It’s a noble cause and the girl who runs?—”
“Ah. I knew there would be a girl involved somewhere.”
“It’s not like that. She’s the organiser. She’s intelligent, hardworking, passionate about the cause?—”
