Page 24 of How to Be a Rockstar's Girlfriend

“He does appear scared.”

Gibson’s eyes narrow on me. “Not funny,” he mutters as he picks his spoon back up and begins to eat.

I watch him as he eats. Does he like it? I’m not the best of cooks. Pasta is pretty much the only thing I can make. And even then, the sauce is from a jar. A jar I had to drive to White Bridge to buy since pre-packaged food is a big no-no in Winter Falls.

“How did you two meet?” Mercury asks.

“At the bar,” I answer at the same time Gibson answers, “At the festival.”

“At the bar during the festival,” I amend.

“And how long have you two been dating?”

“A week,” I say.

“Two weeks,” Gibson says.

“Well, what is it? One week or two weeks?” Mercury demands.

I widen my eyes at Gibson and he motions for me to answer.

“We’ve known each other two weeks but we started dating a week ago.” There. My answer sounded totally plausible. And cleared up all of the confusion. I mentally pat myself on the back. We got this.

“And what first attracted you to my Mercy?” Mercury asks and I gulp.

Crap. We don’t got this. Gibson isn’t ‘attracted’ to me. Correction. I’m sure he’d jump into bed with me if I gave him a chance. But he’s not attracted to me in the traditional sense of girlfriend/boyfriend.

Gibson motions to me with his spoon. “She’s beautiful.”

Mercury narrows his eyes on Gibson. “She is but there’s more to attraction than beauty.”

“She’s sas-s-s.” He coughs. “Saaasy.”

What the hell! He’s slurring his words. He’s trying to hide it but he’s definitely slurring his words. Did he drink before he came here? He doesn’t reek of alcohol but there are ways to hide the smell.

“Aaand smaaarth.” He scratches his cheek and redness forms.

“What’s wrong with you, son?” Mercury asks.

He drops his spoon. “I-I thon’t snow.”

I glare at him but then I realize the redness on his cheek is a rash. I gasp. “Are you allergic to pasta?”

He shakes his head. “Pees.”

“You’re allergic to peace?”

“Pees,” he tries again.

My eyes bulge. “Peas? You’re allergic to peas?”

He nods.

“I put peas in the pasta.”

He scratches at his cheek. “Feel bath.”

He feels bad? What do I do? I jump to my feet and run around the table. “What do you need? What can I do?”

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