“Whatever.” Jules sighs. “I guess we’ll consider the dinner pre-gaming for the real party later that night. Our makeup and hair will already be semi-done, and we’ll get a good buzz on.”

Right, the Senior Kickoff, the first party of the official final year of high school, promising to be ‘all sorts of epic,’ or so the banners suggest.

The lunch bell rings the second we pull into the parking lot, so everyone is already seated or finishing collecting their materials from the kitchen area when I walk into cooking class.

“Look at you, you’ll make a great servant one day.”

Arsen’s glare snaps toward me, but I quickly look away.

Okay, that came out wrong.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I said it. Maybe my guard slipped far too much last night and now I’m on edge, I don’t know, but that was shitty of me.

I focus on hanging my bag on the hook at the edge of the island-like table design, and with jerky movements, he heads toward the back again to gather the pans and utensils we’ll need for today.

In senior cooking class, they leave us alone for the most part. Our grade is determined by how well we execute our menus. I think it’s all a ploy for the teachers to see if we’re completely silver-spooned or capable of problem-solving, ingenuity, and all that so they can laugh at our expense later when many of us are not.

Arsen comes back with a large bowl, a single whisk, and sets them down harder than necessary. He reaches for the menu, but I snag it first. Tilting my head at him.

He glares.

I narrow my eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He crosses his arms.

“I had a bad night,” I try again.

He raises a brow.

Now I cross my arms. Is he really going to try to make me confirm I’m not talking about our little impromptu trip? Because I’m not going to.

I give up, or sort of.

I resort to watching him from the corner of my eye while reading over the menu.

“And today’s terror is... monkey bread. Wow.” I nod. “I would bet this didn’t go through the hovering mother committee for approval.” I lean forward, flipping the thing over, but it’s blank on the other side. “If it had, it would definitely be a sugar-free, gluten-free... god, I can’t even think of anything that could possibly taste good when made in such a way.”

I look to Arsen, who wipes the side grin from his lips as he meets my gaze.

I fight my own, pleased he’s not punishing me for my thoughtless comment. He nods toward the measuring cups, so I move some things over and step closer to his side.