Page 7 of Faking Summer
"Ben Carrington just won a huge case," my mother's voice drifted from where she stood next to my dad. "I bet they're celebrating tonight. Heard he got his client eight million."
“Money and good looks, those are the kind of men we need to be having dinner with,” Yaya added.
We all knew about the Carrington family. My fingers curled into my palm, nails pressing into my skin. I forced a neutral expression in an attempt to hide the snarl fighting to surface. He was the one person who aggravated me to no end. Images stormed behind my eyes—flashbacks of every time Reese's perfect life had collided with mine. With his annoyingly perfect looks, his unreal green eyes, and that arrogant tilt to his chin, as if he'd won life's lottery and knew it. He always got to walk through life on a red carpet—because of wealth and connections. No need to work hard and prove yourself when you're Reese Carrington.
An hour had trickled by in a slow, syrupy crawl before we were finally ushered to our table.
"Finally," my sister exhaled, as she smoothed out her dress. Her eyes sparkled with the reflection of the candlelight when she leaned toward the waitress, conspiratorial. "We're here for my sister’s birthday. She’s been dreaming about your manicotti for weeks—it's her favorite. Well, that and peanut butter and jelly."
The waitress—in a black apron sporting more stains than I could count—flashed a sympathetic smile, her pen poised above her notepad. "I'm so sorry, hunny," she began, her words oozing regret, "that table over there ordered the very last one." She gestured across the room at Reese’s table.
His infamous green eyes were locked onto his plate, where manicotti remnants lay half eaten. A heavy sigh escaped me as I buried my face in the warmth of my palms. "I'll just take the lasagna," I murmured, my voice muffled by my hands.
"You got it, hunny." Her notepad scratched softly against the table as she scribbled the order down.
I stood abruptly, pushing back from the table with a scrape that felt too loud, too sudden. "I'm going to the bar to get a drink," I announced, and no one acknowledged me.
I found myself tracing circles on the counter top as I waited for my drink.
"Looking for the kids' menu? You won't find it at the bar," came a deep, smug voice from beside me.
I turned, already bracing for the inevitable. Reese leaned against the counter, green eyes flickering with mischief as they met mine.
"Funny," I quipped, rolling my eyes, "I was actually looking for the trash—oh, and there you are."
"If I remember correctly, you've always had trouble recognizing trash cans," he said, obviously referring to my discarded school lunches.
"That’s not true at all—I’m looking right at one."
His laugh, a rumble of amusement that somehow seemed both genuine and rehearsed, filled the space between us. "Is there ever a day you don't run your mouth?" he teased, a cocky smile playing on his lips. He leaned in closer, his warm breath barely grazing my ear as he added, "If you need something to do with it, I can help you out with that."
"Well," I began, "I would be stuffing my face with manicotti for my birthday, but you ruined that—like you do everything."
He cocked a brow, his grin pure mischief. "Birthday, huh? Let me guess… twenty-two?"
"Early eighties, actually," I shot back, my sarcasm so thick you could spread it on bread.
Reese’s smirk deepened, his voice a slow, teasing drawl. "That so? Gotta say, you wear eightyrealwell."
“I know,” I said, reaching past him, brushing the cool surface of the bar top with my fingertips before I picked up my drink. "And if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my second favorite meal." The words slipped out, a bitter reminder of the manicotti-shaped hole in my birthday celebration.
"Happy birthday, Chaos," he said, casually sipping his drink, as I turned and walked away.
After dinner, our mostly empty plates were scattered across thetable. Once the waitress picked up our empty plates, my mother was quick to let her know, "We will take the bill now, when you’re ready."
"Oh, hunny," she interrupted. Her hand fluttered up, waving off the concern before it could fully form. "It's already been taken care of."
The air around me seemed to still, the ambient noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading to a distant hum. My mom searched the waitress’s face, trying to understand. "Taken care of?"
"Yes," she confirmed with a nod.
"For the whole family?" Dad asked, overhearing the conversation.
"Indeed," the waitress replied. "The Carringtons have taken care of everything. And," she added with a smile, "they've also spoken with the chef—a pan of manicotti made from scratch has been arranged for your family to take home. It'll be packaged up shortly."
Yaya leaned across the table. "I knew it," she whispered. "That lawyer is into me. He’s my type of man, too. Rich, thoughtful, and looks just like a Greek god—and I would know." She gave a knowing smile.
As my family continued to chat, their voices mingled with the soft notes of a piano somewhere in the background, but all I could do was stare dumbfounded at the now-empty table Reese and his family had occupied. Why in the hell would Reese Carrington pay for my birthday meal? And why would he convince the chef to make manicotti from scratch?
