“If anyone needs to be locked up in a padded cell, it’s you,” he says. His nostrils flare as he scoops up another mouthful of baked beans.
“And leave you out here unsupervised?” I furrow my eyebrows and rub my shin.
Stephen may not be a good pitcher, but he can definitely kick.
“Another glass?” the waitress asks Stephen, stopping him from retorting.
Stephen’s sour face softens at the thought of more alcohol.
Thank God for small mercies.
He looks at my champagne flute, barely touched, compared to the last dregs at the bottom of his.
“Sure, that’d be grand. And while you’re at it, could you rustle up something a little stronger for my friend here? A Bloody Mary perhaps.”
The waitress nods and walks away. Stephen reaches across for my champagne and downs it in one before launching into another monologue, simultaneously chowing down on one of his sausages.
I smile and nod, looking down at my untouched sausage sandwich, when Stephen stops talking. I look up, worried that speaking with his mouth full has finally backfired, but there’s no food left in his open mouth. His eyes widen as a dark shadow engulfs me from behind.
Weird?
The light pouring in from the glass roof, six floors above us, still seems to be lighting up the rest of the tables and the buffet across the room.
“Is this table taken?”
My heart leaps into my throat as I recognize the Northern Californian accent. Stephen shakes his head back and forth, mouth still open.
Alexander sits down diagonally from me at the table to the right of Stephen and I, forcing me to move my chair slightly to the side to get a better view of him. He’s wearing a blue LA Dodgers baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a loose-fitted tank that’s cut so deeply at the side I can make out his ripped abs.
Damn.
This man is all kinds of fine.
He manages to make even what I’m assuming is hangover attire sexy as fuck.
“Heavy night, guys?” he asks, nodding at the drinks the waitress puts down for us. His voice is raspier than yesterday.
Beneath the table, I twirl my thumbs, trying to hide my discomfort.
As if last night wasn’t painful enough.
Now I’m trapped here with him and Stephen again.
“You could say that,” Stephen eventually says, like he finally got his voice back from Ursula. It saves me from the growing discomfort rising in my chest as Alexander remains focused on me.
“Let me clear this for you, gentlemen.” The waitress picks up the used plates in front of Rob and Alexander. “Can I get you started with a drink, perhaps?”
“I’ll take an iced Americano, please,” Alexander responds with a smile.
“A black coffee, thanks.” Rob says, and his nod sends the waitress away.
“Sorry about last night,” Alexander says, switching his gaze between Stephen and me. “I didn’t get back till late, and the fans outside seemed louder than usual. I hope those earbuds worked. Wouldn’t want you having two bad nights of sleep in a row.” The right side of his mouth lifts.
“Sure, no bother.” Stephen takes it upon himself to lead the conversation after quickly knocking back another mouthful of champagne. “You wouldn’t happen to have another pair, would ya? This one’s been keeping me awake for years with his snoring.” He points his thumb at me.
The discomfort in my chest instantly turns to irritation, and I lean forward and kick Stephen under the chair.
The cheek.
