21
Brady
Printers. Fucking printers. One of these days, I’m going to hold a rally where everyone in the city can burn their malfunctioning printer once and for all.
“Please,” the woman on the phone says. “I’ve stayed late to finish this report. My boss will kill me if I don’t have it printed and bound by the time he gets in tomorrow morning. But every sheet has this black line in the middle of it. What do I do?”
I’m sort of aware of the two men who walk up to our table, but I really do think this customer is about to have a panic attack right here on the phone.
I’m more aware when the glass hits the table and lets loose a purple tidal wave.
But the thing I really notice is the fear on Nash’s face. I’d thought I’d seen almost every expression on him. Frustration, discomfort, amusement, ecstasy. But even that night I went to his place in the rain and he’d thought he’d lost all his presentation slides, I’d never seen fear.
I have now.
He stands until he’s eye to eye with the two men who have come up to our table. One is smiling politely at him. The other is speaking and occasionally glancing at me, giving me an up and down look that makes my skin prickle.
“Hello?” the voice on the football phone says.
“Yes, sorry. You’re at Church and Gerrard Street, right?” Not that far. I could duck out and still be back in time for dessert.
And what? Leave Nash here to eat by himself? I am such an asshole. Why did I think I could do this?
I glance back up at Nash and the other two guys. Nash still seems distinctly uncomfortable. One of the new arrivals looks amused. The other, who was looking at me before, his smile says he is thoroughly unimpressed with me.
“I’ll be right there.” I hang up. I’m not even sure she agreed to wait for me. Hell, I’m not confident what she said her name was. Hopefully I’ve got the address right and we can sort out all those details when I arrive.
But first things first.
“Hi. How’s everyone doing?” I say, coming to my feet.
“Brady,” Nash says slowly. My name is only five letters long, but the way he says it right now is a warning. And not in a “don’t be a smart-ass or I’ll make you choke on my dick later” kind of way either. I am legitimately supposed to be on my best behaviour.
The mystery becomes clear when he gestures to the man in the middle and says, “This is Dominic. My ex-husband.”
“Oh.” Oh shit.
Dominic wraps an arm around the man on his other side and says, “And this is Karim. My boyfriend.”
Ohhhh shiiiiit.
Dominic is handsome. Like, he has cheekbones you could cut an entire charcuterie plate on. His eyes are so brown they look bottomless. He’s maybe a few years older than Nash, and everything about what he’s wearing looks polished. The man beside him also has that professional-chic look, like Bay Street lawyers who don’t fully know how to scruff up for a night off. His shirt fits him too perfectly to not be custom, and his silver hair is expertly cut and styled.
I, on the other hand, am wearing one of the fourteen billion shirts I have purchased at H&M sometime in the last decade, and I know I’ve already got at least one glob of olive oil on my pants. Which is nothing compared to Nash, who is currently wearing most of his wine.
We are at a definite disadvantage here.
“I’m Brady.” I reach for their hands to shake. “I’m Nash’s—” My gaze wanders to Nash. His eyes are wide, nostrils flared, and I don’t know how to finish that sentence without alarming him more. Boyfriend, fuck buddy out on a temporary pass, IT consultant—none of these are going to have the desired effect. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I realize another man is hovering at the edge of our little group. The restaurant host, clutching a couple menus, looking anxiously at Dominic and Karim, no doubt waiting to show them to their table.
But they seem rooted to the spot. Dominic can’t take his eyes off me. I stand as straight as I can, pushing my chest out. I don’t know what he sees, but I want him to know that I am to be taken seriously.
“Do you need to go?” Nash says.
“What?” I say.
“Your phone.”
