Page 45 of Playing His Game
Adam wet his lips. Paused. His face twitched. “Your parents are paying you to do nothing… because they don’t believe in socialism?”
Finally, someone who understood. Mo spread his arms wide. “The irony, right?”
“You know, when I was a kid, I thought rich people were supposed to be smart.”
Mo snorted. “Let this be a lesson to you, then.”
“Yikes.” Adam shook his head. “Well, now that you’ve got me dressed”—he glanced at the clock—“three hours before dinner, what should we do to pass the time?”
“Coffee. You are going to make me more of that delicious coffee.”
Adam regarded him with judgment. “You sure caffeine is a good idea?”
“Then make medecaf,” he whined. “I shouldn’t have to suffer through an evening with my parents without some sort of reward, surely.”
A half-hour out from the reservation, Mo declared that it was time to go. He wasn’t going to risk being late. He also refused to let Adam drive. He’d driven his Corvette to Adam’s—she was bright red and purred like a satisfied cat—so he had no reason to take even Adam’s upgraded-but-not-to-par vehicle anywhere his parents might see them.
Adam raised both eyebrows at the sight of Mo’s baby, but he didn’t protest when Mo declared himself chauffeur.
He did complain, though, once they got on the road. First about the lack of leg room, and then because heaven forbid Mo travel above the speed limit or take a turn faster than 10mph.
“Oh my God. Not only do you drive like someone’s grandmother, but you backseat drive like her too!”
“If you don’t want a backseat driver, don’t drive like a maniac.”
Mo rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Forty-five on a forty road is notdriving like a maniac.”
They bickered all the way to the restaurant. Mo was so busy explaining why Adam needed to climb off that plug and let loose that he was almost surprised when Antoine’s came into view. He pulled up to the valet stand and handed over the keys. He hated to let anyone else drive his babies, but the other option risked his parents knowing he’d suffered the indignity of parking his own car like a pleb.
For reasons Mo couldn’t articulate, he grabbed Adam’s hand as they approached the door and tangled their fingers together. Adam shot him a startled look, but didn’t pull his hand away. Thank God. Mo didn’t think he could take any sort of rejection moments before seeing his parents.
Like some horrible unwanted low-jack, the moment they walked in, Mo caught sight of the Du Ponts in the middle of the restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine. Right. They’d picked a highly visible table so as to be on display and hadn’t waited for their guests before ordering the first bottle. If Mo had any hope of this dinner being in any way pleasant, it was ruthlessly annihilated in the face of his parents’ usual showy behavior.
“Deep breath before taking the plunge,” Mo murmured.
Adam snorted a laugh and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m a great swimmer.”
“Mo, Adam, how lovely to see you,” Claire greeted when they reached the table. She stood and offered her cheek for a kiss. Mo obliged and then was shocked to see Adam do the same. They each shook Orson’s offered hand.
“We got tired of waiting and ordered a bottle. You’ll just have to settle for our choice.” Orson’s tone didn’t suggest judgment, but theif you weren’t so horribly latewas easily understood. Mo fought the urge to check the time. Like he didn’t know they’d arrived five minutes early, not late.
“I’m sure we’ll enjoy anything thatyou’vechosen,” Adam said with perfect sincerity. Even after everything Mo had told him, he still seemed determined to give the Du Ponts the benefit of the doubt.
He’d learn.
Well, that or he’d continue to suffer.
Mo’s train of thought momentarily derailed when Adam stepped behind the chair next to Claire and pulled it out a few inches, looking expectantly at Mo.
Thishadn’t been part of Mo’s pre-date briefing, and the gesture brought him up short until Adam raised his eyebrows as if to say,Are you going to sit down anytime soon, or what?
Flushing with annoyance, Mo stepped in front of the chair and let Adam push it in for him.
“Such a gentleman,” Claire said approvingly.
Adam scooted his own chair in next to Orson. “Just being polite.”
Claire poured the wine without asking, while Mo tried not to wince. An oaked chardonnay—dry and acidic, just like Mo’s sense of humor. Not how he preferred his wine, though obviously she didn’t care; this was his parents’ favorite. “How refreshing and charming. Perhaps some of that will rub off on my son.” She set the bottle back in the iced decanter and raised her glass. “Shall we toast? To a mutually beneficial future.”
