Chapter Eight“Georgie Porgie puddin' and pie, got so much money you make me cry.”
“Cut it out, Patrick. My parents are in the next room,” Astria said. “It's my birthday and they don't visit us often. Be nice. We shouldn't be hiding out here in the bedroom when they're nice enough to bring in dinner and treat us to brandy and mead, and my mom bustling around in my kitchen like that. It's so unlike them, and I appreciate it. They're showing me how much they really do care. Dad says they want to talk to me later. Let's get out there.”
“They don't like me,” Patrick said, sprawled on the slatted bed with his head propped against the white Ikea headboard. “I know what they're gonna talk to you about.”
“What?”
“You know. Your future,” he said. “Me not in it.”
Astria adjusted her dark curls a
