Page 9 of Silver Sweet

A black backward baseball cap holds down his dark brown hair. Based on his muscled forearms and cut biceps alone, I assume he’s a drummer.

His eyes flit hard to Jeremy. “Him?” He’s pissed.

I glare. “Oh great, you know who I am. Don’t know who the hell you are.”

He doesn’t even offer a sharp look back. I’m offended that he’s acting like I’m unworthy of hisfucking attention.

“One hour,” Jeremy reminds this dick. “I’ll give you two time alone. Call me if I need to referee. I’ll be in the upstairs lounge.” He exits before we can respond.

Mystery Guy’s brown-blue eyes shift harder onto me. “I’m guessing Jere didn’t mention who he was pairing you up with either.”

“He didn’t mention I’d be with a diva, no.”

“A diva?” He leans farther backward. “If only he warned me I’d be with a judgy nepo baby.”

I grimace.

Being called judgy stings more than the nepo comment. The latter I’m more used to hearing. I’m born into billions since my family owns a ton of companies, the most notable being Fizzle—the most popular soda dynasty in the world.

I nod a few times and suck down my oversized pride.

He’s your last chance.

I don’t cut the distance between us, but I formally introduce myself, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”

“We’re doing middle names?” He doesn’t stand. He just threads his arms, his legs still spread open. A confident, incensed masculine posture. I can’t even call it a slouch. He’s sitting too upright. I hate that I find it even remotely attractive.

“Yeah, middle names. First names. Last names. Not in that order.” My tone is harsh. “Are you going to give me yours or do I need to guess? Because you look like a Patrick.”

He glowers. “Why? My hair isn’t even red.” It’s so dark brown, it’s almost black, and his skin is pale.

“You’re Irish though.”

His jaw twitches. Holy fuck, I’m actually right about his ancestry. I was prepared to be wrong. I contain my surprise and just smirk. “And I meant you look more like the pink starfish Patrick. Friend of SpongeBob.”

“How old are you? Fourteen?”

That shot almost penetrates my tough skin because he soundsseriouslyworried that I might be young.

I narrow my eyes on him. “Because I referenced a cartoon? Dude, adults watch SpongeBob.”

He gives me a once-over that solidifies my joints.

Heat tries to bathe my face. “You must know my age. You clearly know everything about me. I bet you did a research paper on my family. Or you have a shrine to the Cobalt Empire in your bedroom. You kneel at my poster?”

“You want me to worship you, nepo baby?” He sounds hostile. I crave to fan the flames.

“We can start there.”

“We’re not starting there. We’re not even finishing there.”

“You don’t like being on your knees. Noted,” I snap.

“You ever get on yours?” He aims and fires fast.

“Cobalts don’t kneel.”

“The fuck,” he mutters, eyeing me in a rough up-down. “We need to start with the fact that Ibarelyknow you except for your name. That’s it. Your rich family is a part of the fucking lexicon of this country. They’re famous for doing nothing?—”