You're unbelievably rude, did you know that?
A sneer tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You have a lot of nerve, Dom-in-ic."
It's a murmur. A soft tone with serrated-edge words.
And I very much take umbrage with it. "A lot of nerve doingwhat? Breathing?"
I swivel my upper body enough so I can face her. A mistake, to be sure.
Disdainful pink pout. Shrewd chocolate brown eyes. Taut, carved cheekbones. She'd like to rip my head off. I'm not sure how I know this so certainly, but I do.
She runs a fingertip over her sweating glass of ice water. "Showing up here."
"Oh? I didn't realize you own Las Vegas."
"You know what? I'm not going to say any more to you. Wouldn't want to yammer and annoy you." She enunciates the last few words, adding to the confusion of this interaction.
"What are you?—"
"Whose decision was this?" Paisley's yell breaks through my question. Two servers have arrived at our table, both carrying a tray loaded with shot glasses holding clear liquid.
"It was me!" A woman three seats down raises her hand. She has an accent, but I can't tell if it's Spanish or Portuguese.
"Paloma," Paisley says motherly, "you know this means you have to hold my hair later."
The woman, Paloma, wrinkles her nose. "Fat chance. Sounds like a job for your fiancé."
Klein nods and shrugs resolutely. "For better or worse."
Usually, I think his utter devotion to Paisley is something to aspire to, but right now I'm not feeling particularly charitable. "Might want to think twice about what you're getting yourself into."
Hurt flickers through Paisley's blue-green eyes, and I feel like a giant asshole. Klein kicks me under the table. Hard. Without a doubt, my shin will be bruised tomorrow. And I deserve it.
The shots are delivered to each of us, along with a lime wedge.
I'm not typically a shot guy. Under normal circumstances, I'd probably give the shot to somebody else, or only pretend to take it. But today is not a normal day. And it's obvious I need to do something to dull my senses and curb this foul mood I'm in before I do or say anything else I don't mean. And, as an ancillary benefit, maybe the injection of alcohol into my bloodstream will rubberize me enough that I won't feel the pierce of Cecily's poison-tipped dagger she's currently sending my way following my rude comment.
Two salt shakers make their way around the table, and I direct my face away from Cecily when it's her turn to swipe her tongue over her hand and pour the salt.
When everyone is ready, Paloma lifts her shot in the air. "To Paisley and Klein."
We repeat after her. I lick the salt, grimace at the burn of tequila, quickly quelling it with the tang of the lime.
That wasn't too bad.
It's not long after that my limbs feel a little looser. The tension in my neck melts. My molars stop grinding.
Our drinks are delivered, and our food orders are placed. Klein introduces me to everyone around the table. They all laugh at how I ended up wearing this awful shirt.
If I weren't feeling waves of hatred rolling off Cecily, I'd offer her a conciliatory clink of glasses. I'd love to understand what it is she could possibly be angry with me about, but tonight isn't the right time. Cecily isn't crazy, she must believe she's justified for the way she feels. Or, maybe she is a few bricks shy of a load and I didn't notice because I was too busy appreciating how gorgeous she is.
Wait, I think I figured it out. Cecily likes drama.
Satisfaction rolls through me at my superior sleuthing skills, and I mentally pat myself on the back. I'm a no-drama guy, so if Cecily thrives on drama, I've dodged a bullet.
Those tequila shots were pretty good. We should have another one.
"Are you sure about that?" Klein asks.
