Page 73 of Never Kiss and Tell

I roll my eyes.

“Who cares?”

Peter laughs, patting my knee.

“He always had a temper.”

No shit, I think bitterly. It’s evident every time he sees me.

Peter took me to a restaurant that was definitely way out of my pay grade. When I told him as much, he told me in the south, a woman doesn’t pay for a date.

Okay, Casanova.

We’re seated at a table that looks like it belongs in a Michelin restaurant, surrounded on three sides by fish tanks.

Peter orders something in French and moments later, a tin bucket is set up next to our table with an expensive bottle of what I’m assuming is red wine.

I don’t like wine. I never have, but after the last few days I’vehad, I’m not going to complain about some liquid courage.

“We’ll both have thebar au beurre blanc,” Peter says, smiling at the waitress. She’s a very pretty woman, with dark hair and light eyes, but with the look she turns on me, you would think I’ve spit on her Granny. I have no idea what to order. I spent the last ten minutes searching through the menu for something that sounded like chicken, but there were no pictures to go by.

“What is that?” I ask Peter, looking for it on the menu before the girl tugs it from my hand and slips away.

Rude.

“You’ll love it,” Peter says with a wave of his hand. I take another drink of my wine, pushing back the negative thoughts that are forming. Part of me wants to snap that I can order for myself, but the other half wants to be polite.

So far, Peter doesn’t seem to be that bad. He’s a little uppity, reminding me of home, but he’s nowhere near my mother, so that’s good. A little creepy, at times, but I know he’s nervous.

“Tell me about your life in California,” Peter says, tugging the stem of my glass down when I attempt to drink the wine.

Annoyance bubbles inside of me and I bite my tongue to keep from telling him to keep his hands to himself. “Well, not much to tell. My stepfather is a lawyer. I have a few siblings.”

“Marcus Whitmore. I’ve heard of him.”

Fuck.

“Oh, you have?” I say, faking interest.

“Yeah, my father worked with him on a case a few years back. Hell of a lawyer.”

Hell of a slimeball, too.

The last thing I want to do is talk about Marcus and all theimpending questions that will come with him.

“Yeah, he’s good. What does your father do?”

“Politics. He’s in the Senate, actually.”

“And what do you do?”

Peter shrugs. “I work for him. I’m his campaign manager, most of the time.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It’s not,” Peter laughs. “But it’s important. We need people who aren’t afraid to cut a few loses for the greater good. This city is too focused on the few to see the big picture.”

“A few loses?” I ask, cautiously. Sounds like something Marcus and Drew would say.

---