Page 59 of Scoring Grey

“Nonsense, we’re not strangers. We just shared a cabin, and the cab of a truck together for the past forty-eight hours.” He pulls me onto his lap, and my cheeks heat. This is a formal luncheon, and sharing a chair is rude, not to mention the thoughts that I know must be running through Cal’s mind after hearing those words. I’m about to protest and get up when he grabs my hip, his lips beside my ear. “His arm is draped over her shoulder. Not cool. If he gets a fake girlfriend. You can have a fake boyfriend.”

He would see that and not Cal’s livid glare, the one that suggests he’s minutes away from exploding. I’m aware Cal is silently fuming. I just spent the weekend with Dash, but that wasn’t by design. I’ve told him that, and while I know that doesn’t make any of this better, it’s the hand we’ve been dealt at least for lunch. Plus, I’m hoping when he sees what Dash brought, all will be forgiven. It’s a big ask, but right now, I’m running on hope. With Wells to my right and a table of eyes on me and my new guests, I can’t correct him, so I let it go. Instead, I lean forward, trying to lessen how intimate my sitting on Dash’s lap appears.

The kind, older butler comes over and takes a drink order for Dash as Mr. Bronson asks, “Eloise, how do you and Callum know each other?”

“Yes, how did the two of you meet? A hockey player and an American heiress,” his wife tacks on, Dash’s intrusion clearly forgotten.

Cal straightens in his chair, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “He hit me with a football our freshman year.”

“Well, I guess that explains why he plays hockey and not football,” Coach Beck jests as Cal bites his lip to hold back a smile. I know he’s upset and hurt, but that memory is still funny, and I’m here today to show him I remember, too.

“To be fair, I didn’t hit her with the football. I didn’t catch it.”

“Semantics. No worries, Balfour. No one expects you to be good at every sport,” Wells comments as our salads are delivered.

Cal slowly rolls his lips, and I can tell he’s biting his tongue at Well’s underhanded remark. “Or maybe missing the ball was part of the play. After all, she’s sitting at a table I invited her to all these years later.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize the three of you attended high school together,” one of the older women comments. “Eloise, were Callum and Blair just as cute back then as they are now?”

“Cal was very focused on hockey in high school. He always knew he wanted to go pro, so there wasn’t much time for anything else. As you know, the seasons are long, and the ice times are always early in the morning or late at night,” Blair answers for me, a move that doesn’t go unnoticed by a few of the more polished guests. Everyone knows speaking for someone else is poor manners, especially in social circles where her name would never make an invite list. She might be a Wyndham, but she’s not one that counts. Blair shifts closer and wedges herself into the crook of Cal’s arm. “We didn’t start officially talking until the end of senior year, but our families have always been close.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a crude comment about that closeness, but I don’t. I’ll make my move when the time is right. Her hand slides onto Cal’s thigh, and I dig my nails into my palms. “They always knew this was going to happen.”

My eyes slowly rise to Cal’s, and for the first time tonight, I can see the struggle to maintain this ruse is challenging him as much as it is me. The rise and fall of his chest are more pronounced as he clenches his jaw and works to regulate his reaction to her antics. Strangely, his struggle settles my nerves. At least I know neither of us is enjoying this.

“That’s a sweet history. People enjoy a good friends-to-lovers story. No wonder the two of you are all people can talk about,” the woman Wells said had deep pockets comments.

Sweet, my ass. More like bullshit. I turn my eyes upward and take a drink of my wine.

“That doesn’t sound like a love story at all,” Dash says with a titter that mirrors the sour taste in my mouth. As rude and unmannered as his comment might be, I’m here for it.

“And why not?” one of Mrs. Bronson’s friends asks, offended on Blair’s behalf.

Dash takes a drink of the whiskey he ordered. “Easy. True love always finds a way. If it didn’t back then it’s because someone didn’t want it to.”

Blair’s eyes shoot daggers at Dash, and I can tell it’s taking every ounce of self-respect she has not to lose it and fly across the table to claw his eyes out, especially when Cal doesn’t correct his statement. Cal’s lack of defense of his supposed relationship speaks volumes and she knows it.

The tension in the room is palpable when Wells breaks the silence and asks, “Eloise, did you want to show the picture you created for the charity auction?”

“Sure,” I say somewhat hesitantly. While I don’t love the idea of showing the piece to the entire room in attendance, I’m ready to get this over with and end this game with Cal.

“In my defense, you’ll understand why I thought Cal painted it. It’s a frozen lake, nothing like a Mozart. I could try to pull the article if you think it would help raise more money for the auction.”

My eyebrows rise, and I bring a napkin to my mouth to hide my snicker. This is why I haven’t taken a shot at Blair yet. Watching her dig her own hole is way more entertaining.

She smiles before grabbing Cal’s hand and resting their joined hands on the table. “Anything for charity.”

Cal’s eyes stay locked on their hands, his jaw tight.

Wells chuckles at my right, and her brown eyes flick to him, believing her comment garnered amusement from him, and it did, but not for the glory she thinks. “You do realize Mozart was not a painter.”

Her brows furrow, and I glance away, unable to keep a straight face. She must have used his name because the word ‘art’ is in it. Dimwitted twit.

“He was a musician. A comparison such as Monet or Friedrich would have been a more suitable choice for your mockery to hit its intended target.”

My eyebrows rise. I’m really starting to like this Wells guy. Cal, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to lose it.

Mr. Bronson swallows the last of the amber liquid in his glass and clears his throat. “I disagree that revealing the painting before the event will hurt the value of the piece.” He steers the conversation back on course. “If anything, it will likely increase its demand because it is one of a kind and painted by a Beck.” He turns his attention to me. “Would you like me to uncover it?”

“Actually”—I turn to Dash—“do you mind swapping what’s inside of the box you brought with what’s on the easel?”

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