“How old are you?” Oliver asks her like she didn’t just assault him.
“Sixty years young, baby! My parents didn’t live this long. I’m settingrecords. Go on. Take it off.”
Oliver stares at her, then tugs at his collar.
Is he—is hegoing along with this?
Oh my god.
Is Oliver going tostrip?
What is even happening right now?
Is this real?
Is this actually happening?
Or is he pranking me?
As he tugs his collar again, fresh air wooshes through the room.
“Did somebody order afish strip?” a deep male voice says from the front of the restaurant.
Gasps go up among the birthday guests. The birthday girl herself freezes and stares at Oliver in horror. “You’re not the stripper,” she whispers.
“It was not on my calendar for today,” he confirms.
“Oh my god, I slapped your ass.”
“It had fallen asleep in the car. Thank you for confirming feeling has come back.”
I smack a hand over my mouth and turn around, and I don’t know if it’s because of admiration for how Oliver is handling this or if it’s horror at how much I appreciate the way he’s handling this.
“Is that your girlfriend?” the birthday girl whimpers.
“All of this fish, here for the stripping,” the stripper calls. “Who wants to…scale me?”
“She’s my companion,” Oliver tells the birthday girl.
Okay, that was low.
I know whatcompanionmeans.
Probably payback for me using his nickname earlier. I deserve that.
“Voluntarily?” The birthday girl’s voice has changed. “Is shevoluntarilyyour companion, or are you holding her against her will?”
I turn back to face her, knowing exactly where she’s going. “I’m good,” I say as Oliver’s brows furrow like he knows there’s subtext happening but hasn’t puzzled out what it is.
“Of course you’d say that,” she says.
“No, no, I’m good. He grew up in this weird cult where they called all of their friends their companions, if you know what I mean, and he hasn’t been out long enough to understand the subtleties. If anything, I’m more a danger to him than he is to me.”
He slides a look at me.
“It’s afintasticshow coming your way, ladies,” the stripper croons as he pushes his way between the birthday girl and Oliver. To us, he mutters, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but don’t ignore closed signs around here. You messed up my entrance. And who the hell else drops the change in the fishbowl?”
“We didn’t know.” I jerk a thumb toward Oliver. “He was in a cult.”
