Page 153 of Scrum Heat

It’s all fine.

*

By the time we sit down for dinner, I’ve already hit my limit.

Brunch had been stiff, but fine. He’d spent most of it talking about hedge funds and foreign policy. Golf was worse—nine holes of thin compliments and thick silence, of veiled jabs about my form and not-so-veiled ones about my future. I beat him by five strokes. He said nothing.

Now, we’re at his dining table—some polished marble monstrosity that probably cost more than I make in a year. The cutlery’s heavy, the napkins are monogrammed, and the whole room feels staged and sterile.

A woman in soft-soled shoes clears our salad plates with practiced silence. We’ve had three courses, and barely spoken ten words that weren’t about wine pairings or the weather in Westminster.

Then, finally—

“You’ve bonded, then?” he asks, like he’s asking if I remembered to renew my car insurance.

I nod, steady. “I have.”

“So you’re officially a pack, now?”

I nod again. “Yes.”

He lifts a brow. Not in horror, necessarily; just... mild surprise. I think.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “That’s... decisive.”

I wait for more. For a smile. For ayou seem happy.

None comes.

Instead, he says, “You know, your mother and I bonded when we were twenty-one.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You’ve mentioned.”

He nods, as if that settles something. “Bonding young can be... tricky.”

“Well, I’m not twenty-one,” I remind him. Then, because I can’t help myself, “And I’m not you.”

He sighs. “And the girl?”

“Frankie.”

“Yes.” He waves a hand. “The omega. The one with the… internet presence.”

My jaw tightens. “She’s the club’s social media manager. She works full-time. She’s exceptional at it.”

“She’s veryonline,” he notes, like that’s a diagnosis. “And you’re trending again.”

“What can I say? People enjoy watching rugby,” I shrug. “And, apparently, my thighs.”

I swear to god, heshudders. “Please don’t say that at the dinner table.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Forgot the chandelier was sensitive.”

“Theo,” he sighs. “You’ve always had potential. But this…showboating. The OSC, the gossip sites, that ridiculous video of you lifting another man in the air like you’re auditioning for a musical—”

“It was a lineout.”

“It was theatrical.”

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