Page 47 of Playing His Game

To his credit, Adam managed to put his fork into the snail without causing a biological hazard, and he raised his eyes to meet Claire’s across the table as though he was sizing up an opponent on the ice. Finally, he seemed to realize the game. “You must have discovered them on your travels?”

Mo watched in horrified fascination as he put the bite into his mouth. Adam kept his face neutral as he chewed and swallowed, then delicately dabbed his lips with his napkin.

Point to Adam.

As Mo had predicted, his parents catapulted themselves into showing off. They talked about Nice, Milan, Barcelona, Geneva, Oslo, and even Moscow: “We haven’t been backrecently, of course,” Claire hastened to add, after wistful sighing about the coffee at a particular café near Red Square. “It’s just such a shame, all this conflict. I miss traveling more freely.”

Adam met Mo’s eyes.

What the fuck is wrong with her?Adam’s eye twitch asked.

I fucking told you, Mo answered with his brows.

When the escargot plates were whisked away and immediately replaced with the main course, Adam excused himself to the restroom. He had the tight, wild look about the eyes that Mo’s parents inspired in rational, intelligent people.

Mo watched his progress out of sight and then looked at the lobster placed before Adam’s seat.

He’s not coming back, he thought bleakly. Any sensible person wouldn’t. They’d run for the hills and forget about any promise they’d made to pretend to be Mo’s boyfriend.

They sat in awkward silence. Even if Mo wanted to engage, he couldn’t find his tongue. The dread that Adam must have called an Uber made him feel queasy.

Adam was too serious and responsible to actually run away. Right?

But he couldn’t fully repress the idea.

“Well, our lobster is getting cold,” Claire said.

“Yes. He can’t expect us to wait on him when he left after the food arrived.”

Claire tutted her agreement, and they both picked up their cutlery.

Mo didn’t pick up his own. He, at least, could be polite and wait for Adam’s return.

“Moritz,” Claire said, “don’t be stubborn. Enjoy your meal.”

Mo folded under their judgmental gaze and picked up his fork.

He’d only just poked at his food when Adam returned, proving gallant if obviously addle-brained.

He didn’t even react to the fact that they’d started without him. He just smiled and nodded when they made snide comments about the food going cold and picked up his fork, to their smirking satisfaction.

Of course, neither of them noticed what became glaringly obvious to Mo: Adam didn’t like lobster.

He was trying to hide it, pushing the food around and eating the non-lobster items on the plate, but it was obvious to anyone who could notice anything beyond themselves.

Mo was an idiot. He should have asked about food preferences. Well, Mo couldn’t go back in time, but he could help.

“Oh God, babe, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think.” He shook his head theatrically and scooted his plate toward Adam’s. “You can’t eat all that butter sauce—you’ll have heartburn all night. Here, take my potato and give me some of your lobster.”

Adam blinked and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “Oh—you don’t have to?—”

“Moritz!” Orson chided. He exchanged glances with his wife. “You didn’t tell us about this condition! We could have ordered it with lemon, or asked for salmon instead?—”

“I totally forgot.” Mo credited his childhood growing up on impromptu acting lessons with Sage’s mom for the ease with which the lie came out. Or maybe it was the childhood under Orson and Claire. He made apologetic eyes. “He doesn’t like to admit it—you know how tough guys are. It slipped my mind.”

Meanwhile, Adam took advantage of the distraction to swap the food.

“We could still order something different,” Claire began.