Page 131 of Hate You More

The reason we wed. Got to keep reminding myself of that.

“I expected something a little . . . fancier.”

“Jesus, Hannah,” I mutter, exasperated. “You must be a nightmare date.”

“I’m discerning,” she retorts, taking a sip of her martini that, not five minutes ago, she described as the best she’d ever had. “There’s a difference. It wasn’t a slight. I’m just saying this place has been all over the socials as star studded. I thought it would be a little more . . . select.”

She makes a tiny gesture to the trio of girls pulling pouty faces at the bar behind her as one of them uses their phone to grab a snap. Short skirts and sleek hair, they’re obviously dressed to draw attention.

Next to Hannah, Hugo makes a meow sound, swiping a hand through the air like a kitten.

“I’m just making an observation. I thought you couldn’t get a reservation here for love nor money.”

“Well, he did.” Hugo tips his head my way. “Can’t be that hard.”

“Thank you, Hugh.” I tip the rim of my glass to his as I give in to a twinge of regret. I failed to mention to Clara that I invited this pair along at the last minute.

It was a knee-jerk reaction after thinking back on the conversation with my mom. I’m still trying to process that some of my reality, my reasons, might’ve been built on unsteady ground. I guess I’m having a hard time butting up my experiences alongside the things my mom said. What if I didn’t understand that night the way I always thought I had?

The idea . . . it sits under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. Irritating and niggling. And for that reason, I didn’t want to be alone with Clara tonight. Sitting across a table from her, mood lighting and low music, forcing myself to smile. Hand holding and stolen kisses.

The narrative, or so goes the story.

My need, as it turns out.

I’m in no mood to lean into any performance right now, let alone that of high-profile newlyweds. So I brought this pair to run interference, not that they’re aware. To help me feel like I’m in control, instead of feeling like a man wishing he installed new brake pads when the vehicle is already careening off a cliff.

“It’s probably easier to reserve a spot at the bar,” Hugh, my human buffer, suggests.

“If you’re willing to line up for hours,” I put in. “According to Paolo.”

“I bet he didn’t stand in line.” Hugo’s gaze glides to the microinfluencers at the bar again, tipping his drink in their direction. “I also bet that, if you look like them, you won’t have to wait long.”

“Do you want to go and speak to the pretty girls, Hugh?” Hannah turns sideways in her seat as though to let him pass. “Shoot your shot,” she encourages, flicking her red hair over her shoulder.

“Not my type.” He gives a shrug.

“Then why are you looking so hard?”

“Because there’s a mirror behind them. And I’m a pretty boy.”

“And what he means by that,” Hannah says, glancing my way, “is he’s offended they’re not chasing him.” She gives a roll of her eyes as though to say he’s hopeless.

She’s right. I don’t know what it is about him, but women just fall into his lap. Sometimes literally. He’d say it’s his boyish good looks, but my money is on his accent.

“They haven’t got a thing on you, Hansy.” He picks up his drink, watching Hannah somewhat consideringly.

Huh. I tilt my head and study them. Nah. I’m reading too much into this. Hugo and Hannah would be a match made anywhere but heaven. She’s too straitlaced. Ballsy. And Hugh is . . . well, him. He’d drive her crazy.

“It’s a shame Max couldn’t make it,” I say, trying for a change of topic while I reset my brain.

“This isn’t the kind of place to bring a kid.”

“I don’t know.” Hugo gives a sly smile. “Little Archie can be my wingman any day of the week, especially after he informed the whole restaurant at brunch last month that I had a massive knob.”

“Is that the same Archie who then told the old lady at the next table he knew why it’s called a penis?” Hannah’s lips draw together in a purse.

“Pretty smart, if you ask me.”