The Player & The Pauper | ✓

19 | Better Hide The Wine

"I'd pay to see that," I grin cheekily.

When we walk into the kitchen, I immediately assess for damage. I don't smell smoke, and there's no visible signs of the horrors my mother had inflicted on it. It doesn't matter how many times Yaya shows her how to make a proper meal, my mother is hopeless. Not that I'm much better, but at least I admit it. And stay as far from food preparation as possible.

Jay's already settled into his seat at the table, and he doesn't bother looking up from his phone when I pull out my chair and take a seat across from him. Hunter, playing gentleman, helps Mom with a saucepan while she grabs a bowl of salad and a pot off of the stove.

"Why, thank you, Hunter," Mom coos as he sets down the saucepan and takes the seat beside me at the table. "Maybe if my daughter keeps spending time with you, she might actually learn some manners."

I scoff. "You're about seventeen years too late for that one, Mom."

My mother glares at me, but she can't fault my logic. Instead, she sighs, and waves a hand at the spaghetti dinner set in front of us. The carbs look surprisingly appealing, and we all busy ourselves scooping pasta and Cesar salad onto our plates.

It's quiet for a moment, the sounds of the boys at the table stuffing their faces the only soundtrack for our dinner. I know it's too good to be true that it could actually last. And sure enough, I'm right.

"So, Hunter," my mom begins, swirling her fork around on her plate. "How are your parents doing?"

I groan, but the sound is disguised by the food I shovel into my mouth.

Hunter coughs a little, like he's choking on a crouton, but he's quick to compose himself. "They're great, Ms. Ma— Helen."

She nods. "You mentioned before that your father took over for your grandfather down at the station. What about your mother? What's she up to these days?"

"Well, she used to have a little shop down on main street, selling quilts and stuff," Hunter explains, pushing around his food on his plate. Something in his eyes changes, though, and I barely have a chance to acknowledge it before he covers it with a smile. But it's not the Hunter smile I know and— whatever. "But, uh, it just got to be too much for her a few years back. She works from home, filling orders online and stuff. It's easier on her."

My mom's smile is warm, but there's something almost sad about it. "I'm glad to here she's doing okay. She always was a creative one," she says admirably, between bites of salad. Turning to me, she adds, "Have you met Claire and Zac yet, sweetheart?"

My smile is forced. "I haven't had the pleasure yet, no," I tell her, mentally prattling on about how awkward this entire conversation is.

Hunter grins at me. "Maybe it's about time you come to our's for dinner, yeah?"

I resist the urge to kick him under the table. "That'd be swell." Somehow, I don't think I fit the idea of the kind of girl Hunter's parents would expect him to bring home for dinner. Not enough plaid scarves and leggings.

Despite the sarcasm drooling from my mouth, Hunter takes it in stride and resumes plowing through the spaghetti on his plate. It's kind of cute, actually, watching him when he's acting like just a regular teenage boy. Almost sweet, even.

Don't get me wrong. I totally understand the charming asshole persona he wears at school. I used to put on an act too, back in New York. Which I guess might be one of the reasons we seem to get along well when we're alone. We both know what it's like to wear a mask at school, because everyone expects something of us.

God, when did I get so melodramatic?

To distract myself from the teen soap opera playing in my head, I point my fork across the table in the direction of my little brother. "Speaking of sappy, hows that brunette I saw you making out with the other day? Monika Something-Or-Other?"