Page 54 of Wish For Me

“Better?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” His fingers tighten on my sides before he drops his hands.

“Good.”

I shift back onto my butt, leaning against the wall of the elevator. Peter sits a few feet away, mirroring my pose, his long legs stretched out in front of him. For a while, neither of us speaks.

“Will you do something for me?” I finally blurt out.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Is Vega Ransome asking me for a favor?”

“Nope,” I say flatly. “Completely changed my mind.”

He laughs, nudging his knee against mine. “I’m kidding. What do you need?”

“I just…will you maybe talk to me?”

He looks surprised by my request. “Talk to you? What about?”

“Anything.” I shift, uncomfortable. “I don’t do silence very well. It’s making me nervous.”

I half-expect him to say something cutting, something about how I talk too much and I’m too silly and immature. Instead, he leans his head back against the elevator wall and closes his eyes.

“How is school going?”

I groan. “Let’s not talk about that. I really don’t feel like having another fight.”

He holds up his hands, eyes still closed. “Fine. Let’s see. My grandfather made pot-au-feu for Christmas dinner.”

“Oh my god,” I whimper. Pot-au-feu is a classic French dish, as simple as it is delicious, consisting of vegetables and beef cooked together in a broth. The components of the dish are then separated out into two courses—the broth, and the meat and vegetables. It’s family cooking, and Henri Dumont does that better than just about anyone in the world.

“I’m so jealous right now. I’ve only had his pot-au-feu once, and it was amazing.”

Peter’s eyes snap open and he stares at me, surprised. “You’ve had it? But he doesn’t put it on the menu.”

I shrug. “I was at the restaurant once with my parents and he said he was going to give me something special.” I don’t tell him it was shortly after I got kicked off the cooking show. “It was one of the best things I ever ate.”

“He’s ridiculously good,” Peter says, pride oozing from his voice.

“You probably would rather have stayed there,” I say. “With your grandparents. Instead of flying back out here for the second time in a week.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t mind too much.”

For some reason that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, a warm, sticky feeling inching through my chest.

“I don’t get to see my dad enough,” he adds. “If I would have stayed in LA, he’d be alone out here. At least my grandparents have each other.”

I want to ask about his mom. All I know is that his parents got divorced when he was really little and she lives somewhere in Europe. His dad is remarried now, but he doesn’t seem close with his step-mom. He never talks about his real mom—or maybe he just doesn’t talk about her with me. And why would he, really? It’s not like we’re friends. Two somewhat bizarre but not unpleasant nights together in Tennessee don’t make us friends.

“And how have the Littles been enjoying their victory?” He asks.

I grin. “We’ve been enjoying it very much. Cade made us crowns and we’ve been wearing them at every meal.”

Peter snorts. “I would say that you’re all crazy but honestly, that night was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

I’m shocked into silence. I can’t believe he’s being so willingly pleasant. Complimentary, even.

“Is your family always like that?” he asks, and I’m pretty sure there’s a note of wistfulness in his voice.