My stomach twists and something must show in my face because he grabs my arm lightly. “I like you,” he says quickly as Zeb turns and comes back towards us. “You’re good for him. Don’t let Patrick wind you up.”

“Am I good for him?” I say, startled. “I irritate him mostly. I’m too young for him, apparently, and too chaotic. He’s obviously looking for someone older and responsible.”

“He’s more alive this week than I’ve ever seen.” He shakes his head. “Zeb doesn’t know his arse from his elbow sometimes. He’s infuriatingly blind to what’s under his nose.”

“What are you two talking about?” Zeb asks as he comes up to us.

“What a terrible shot you are,” Max says, releasing my arm as Zeb glares down at it. He holds up his hands in defence. “We weren’t doing anything.”

Zeb shoots me a look as if to see if I’m okay, and I see now what Max was talking about. He wears that responsibility like Superman wears a cape. I smile at him. Some superheroes never get recognised, I suppose.

He looks a little startled at the warmth of my smile, and then his gaze focuses behind me, and he blinks a few times. I turn and start to laugh.

Xavier is walking towards us with a sheet wrapped around him.

Max groans. “What the hell are you dressed in?” he mutters as Xavier saunters up to us as cool as an ice cream.

He looks down at his outfit and up at Max as though he’s a moron. “A toga.”

“I can see that,” Max murmurs. “I should have actually said why are you wearing that?”

“It’s period dress,” he says, frowning at Max.

“Thank you,” I say triumphantly. “I told you that invite was badly worded.”

“Zeb?” comes a tentative voice from behind us, and as a group we swing round to face Patrick who is standing with a warm smile on his face. His blond hair glows in the sun and he looks unspeakably beautiful. My heart sinks a little from where it had been buoyed by Max’s words. Why on earth would Zeb look at me when this man was obviously his taste? I look at Zeb who is staring hard at Patrick as if analysing him and my heart sinks further. Still is his taste.

“Can I help you?” Zeb asks. “Should I be doing something? You never gave me any tasks this weekend.”

I smile a little. I’m sure mentally he’s cursing that he hasn’t got his diary on him. It’s huge and held together by bands because it bulges with paperwork and lists.