“I believe that’s the name of the professional rugby team in town.”
“What’s rugby?”
“It’s a sport where men wear short shorts and no protective equipment, and they try to get a ball that’s like a bloated football down the field, which they call the pitch, to score while never throwing it forward but sometimes kicking it.”
“That sounds dumb.”
“Women should’ve invented sports.”
Margot suddenly gasps. “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.I know you. Greta! Greta, this isGoldie. From the Instagrams. Goldie who believes in us!”
Ah, hell.
I know where this goes.
But Goldie doesn’t seem to need a bouncer. She smiles—and it’s a pretty fucking brilliant smile, blinding almost—and easily shifts into her public persona.
Which doesn’t seem all that different from when I’ve seen her and watched her every time she doesn’t know I’m around.
Like it’sher. The her that I’m not allowed to know.
And this is where she shines.
Got a lot of respect for that.
The manager recognizes her too. Asks for an autograph.
The women want to know if she’s excited for her move to London.
And I’m the problem. Me and my mustache—it’s notthatbig or that ugly—are the problem.
I snag Goldie’s basket off the floor, grab that brick of cheese she dropped and add that too, and head to the front of the store, where I pay for both of our groceries, and then sit and wait.
Without flashing the ’Stache of Glory at anyone else who might think it’s a live animal growing on my upper lip.
After about ten minutes, Goldie appears near the register, looking around and frowning. I lift up her canvas basket and jerk my head toward the exit when she spots me.
“You didn’t have to buy my groceries,” she tells me when we meet up at the sliding glass doors.
Points to her for not asking what she owes me.
It’s like she knows I’ll tell her nothing.
Partially so that I know that I’ve won a game Silas doesn’t even know we’re playing where I get a point because I basically bought his dinner, and he’ll probably whine about it.
Yes, it’s a dumb game.
Shut up. I like it.
“Seemed more useful than playing bouncer,” I tell her.
“I’m my own bouncer.”
“Figured. You’re a badass. And that’s a compliment.”
“Thank you.”
I tuck one hand into my pocket and slide a glance at her while I let my own grocery bag swing from my other hand. “You get recognized a lot?”
