“You said we had to get going, yes?” Rhys side-stepped him and smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. Beckett watched him fiddle with his shirt sleeves until they lay flat, and then he helped Rhys into his jacket.
“You look so handsome,” Beckett murmured, mostly to himself, but the compliment landed on Rhys’s ears, which turned pink.
“The car is waiting.”
“Of course.”
Beckett followed Rhys down to the sidewalk where a black town car idled in the street.
“Gene,” Rhys greeted. “Good to see you again.”
“Mr. St. George.” Gene opened the door for them both. “Mr. Thatcher.”
Rhys frowned and climbed all the way in, leaving room for Beckett. The car had been a concession Beckett had easily made because Rhys was not the best driver and Beckett was still pinching pennies. Rhys could say whatever he wanted about that money being Beckett’s to share and use, but he had no intent of ever touching it.
“Why are you unhappy all of a sudden?” he asked, giving Rhys a sideways glance.
“Mr. St. George.”
“Oh, my God.” Beckett laughed and dropped his head against the headrest. “You’re something else.”
It was a short drive to the restaurant, and Sebastian and Remington were already seated at a table for four when they arrived. Sebastian greeted his brother warmly, and Remington shook Beckett’s hand which seemed oddly formal considering that they had gotten to know each other more, but he assumed it was a habit that rich people weren’t interested in breaking.
He took his seat, tension snaking it’s way through his shoulders, and he chewed at the inside of his lip while Rhys looked through the wine list and ordered a bottle for the table.
“You look like you want to crawl out of your skin,” Sebastian said, forcing his attention.
Three sets of eyes landed on him and Beckett wanted to crawl under the table and die. He shook his head and plastered on a passable smile.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“No.” Rhys set a hand on his knee and angled toward him, pulling Beckett’s focus to him and him alone. “You’re tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“Remington, help me find the bathroom,” Sebastian said.
“You know where it is.”
“Remington.” From the periphery, Beckett watched Sebastian haul Remington up and away from the table, leaving him alone with Rhys.
“What’s wrong?” Rhys asked again. “Did you want red instead of white?”
Beckett laughed, unable to stop himself. He took Rhys’s hand off his knee and raised it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “I just feel very out of place in your world sometimes.”
“This isn’t my world.” Rhys flicked a dismissive gesture toward the empty chairs on the other side of the table. “You are.”
He exhaled, cheeks burning. “I don’t even know what fork to use half the time.”
“Work from the outside in, then the top down.”
“That’s not the point, really.”
“Do you think I would ever let you fumble?” Rhys leaned in close, his stare imploring.
“No.”
“It’s okay to feel out of your element,” Rhys told him. “But you’re not. You’re with me, and I’ve got you.”
