9.05AM, Saturday, Dec. 12th
The Fourth Season, New York
I gaped at the Hotel I thought I’d never be able to step foot in. I tugged on Blane’s sleeve.
“Are you kidding me?” I hissed, into his ear, grabbing his hand. “Your family owns the Fourth Season chain?”
He tried to look modest, but his smirk gave it away. “Yeah.”
I stared at him in absolute wonder. He was rich. Incredibly, insanely rich. And he was hot. And an amazing artist.
Why was he dating me?
He twisted his wrist around, so his hand was holding mine. Blane then lead me into the restaurant, nodding at the doorman, who bowed respectably. Holy Crap. It was true.
“It’s not like your family isn’t rich as well,” he said. I couldn’t see his face, as he was in front of me, so I stared at the back of his head for a few moments. What the hell was is talking about?
“What do you mean?”
“Your cousin. Jake.”
Who? Realization suddenly dawned on me, and I blinked.
“He’s not rich, though,” I blurted out. “He’s just a student at Harvard. He’s actually pretty poor.”
“Oh.” Blane sounded confused. I suddenly wished I could see his face. “Then…My sister must’ve gotten it wrong. She thought he was Jake Brooks, the billionaire. She was interested in him, you know.”
I suddenly stopped, feeling my blood running cold. “What?”
He turned around, looking even more confused. “Yeah. She was. Are you okay, Summer?”
“Uh, I’m fine,” I mumbled, not meeting his gaze.
“Good.”
He slid his arm around my waist, and I tried my best to not cringe away. I gave him a smile, which he returned.
“Ah, Mister Blane,” the waiter said, coming towards us with a bit smile lighting his face. He bowed to Blane (which was getting seriously weird. Just because he was rich, didn’t mean he wasn’t a teenage guy). “We have that table you requested on hold. Would you like a bottle of the usual delivered?”
I frowned. The usual?
“Please,” Blane said, smiling. We were led to our table, and he pulled back the chair for me. I sat down, pulling out my notebook. Inside, I scrawled:
Tip: Do not show jealously. Definitely not. Never ever.
Blane peeked over the top, and I snapped it shut again. He gave me a cute little caught-in-the-act boyish smile. I smiled back at him. Like lying, smiling when you didn’t feel like it, had become second nature to me as well.
“So shall we have appetizers?” Blane asked, passing me a leather-bound menu. I took it. “Do you want to pick for us? I mean, last time we ate out, you didn’t really seem to enjoy the food.”
My heart melted a little. He’d noticed.
“Uh, sure.” I looked down the menu. Most of it was unpronounceable, badly described rambling. I picked out an appetizer at random. “How about this…smoked salmon goat’s cheese tartlet?”
He nodded at the waiter standing next to us. The waiter jotted it down.
“Then…chicken breast with rosemary and sauce. And chocolate soufflé for dessert, please.”
The waiter wrote it all down, and nodded, before leaving. Blane caught my eye.
“Wait? Last time, the chocolate soufflé was good.”
***
Why wasn’t there any spark? I was annoyed, at the world. Blane poured me a glass of “the usual” (with turned out to be wine. Gross). I smiled at him, as I took the smallest sip humanely possible. It didn’t matter, because the bitter taste still entered my mouth. I choked, but hid it by pretending to sneeze.
“So,” I said, my eyes watering, “what are you planning to do for the Art Project?”
“It’s going to be a surprise,” he said, his eyes dancing. “You’ll love it.”
‘You’ll love it’. A phrase intended to cause joy and excitement, right? How come I’m completely dreading this? Blane was such a cheesy romantic, he would probably do the unthinkable, and make a collage about our love.
Oh, dear Lord, it’s going to be that, isn’t it?
“Uh…Blane…” I said, as casually as I could. “I’m really stuck for ideas. Could you tell me what yours is?”
He just smiled, and did that annoying nose tap thing that made me want to hit him full in the face. For the rest of the night, he wouldn’t tell me, even when I asked him repeatedly. This made me very worried. I really hoped it wouldn’t embarrass me, as I honestly thought Blane had a good chance of winning, and a picture of me in the nude or whatever equally embarrassing painting he was planning on entering wouldn’t make me happy. At all.
The food came, and left. Blane seemed to honestly enjoy the mushy food I’d ordered. Me, on the other hand, hated it.
Blane seemed to be smiling a lot. In a twisted way, that annoyed me as well. It was almost like he could do nothing right. I felt sorry for him, as I imagined the ways I could drive the fork I was holding in my hand into his skull.
***
Author's Note: I know, I know. That was the shortest chapter ever. I'm sorry, but it's been so hectic sorting out my new book which I'm uploading tonight!!! Check it out!!!
Vomment!!!
P.S. Promise next part will be longer!!!
