“Still can’t believe he knocked off a point for not being loud enough. I mean, come on. We were trying to be quiet so they wouldn’t hear us.” That’s so unfair. If I’d known I was being judged, I would have put some effort into being noisy. After a tour with the Marines, I’m not shy about people hearing me come.
“And you failed,” Harold says cheerfully.
We look up, and he and Calla are coming toward us, the cheese-packing debacle resolved. From the way Calla has the tote slung over her shoulder, I’m guessing she won.
“Get up, or we’ll be late,” she orders. “It’s bad enough Harold slowed us down. Don’t add to the problem.”
I obey, since getting on the wrong side of my boyfriend’s best friend seems like a stupid thing to do, and hold out a hand to Phil. He takes it, lets me pull him up, and then hangs on to my hand.
I fucking love it.
“Lead the way, Cal,” he says, mock-saluting.
I make a mental note to show him how to salute properly. Not that it matters—it’s cute the way he does it.
Calla leads the way to the front door, muttering under her breath. She’s been in a shitty mood since we arrived last night. Phil said it was partly because she’s got some unresolved personal issues, partly because Harold showed up unannounced to crash on the couch, and mostly because those two things are connected. I was too busy alternating between worry about Vivi and trying to get Phil’s pants off to give it much thought, but now I have some questions.
“Motherfucker! Who left this here?”
Questions that can wait until Calla’s not listening.
She snatches up the parcel that someone left right outside their door, shoves it into the tote with the cheese and stuff, and marches down the hall like she’s daring anyone to get in her way.
“So,” Harold says, “we should take two cars, right? I’ll ride with you guys.”
The guywho opens the door to us is one I recognize. “Hi,” he says with a friendly smile, holding out his hand. “I’m Jordan.”
I shake it, grateful I’m used to dealing with famous people and no longer get starstruck. “Griff Pevensy. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. I’ve?—”
“Don’t the rest of us get a hello?” Harold asks. “I told Blaise he’d never manage to civilize a brute from the athletics department.” He’s smirking, and Jordan rolls his eyes, so it’s probably an old joke.
“Hello, person who spends too much time in my spare room.” He directs a warm smile to Phil and Calla. “And a specialhello to the people who are going to design the suit I’ll wear for my Hall of Fame induction one day.”
“Hah!” someone shouts from inside the house. “You wish!”
“They’re all so mean,” Jordan tells me earnestly. “If you’re not okay with mean love, this might not be the right place for you.”
Phil gasps. “Excuseme. Can you at least wait until my boyfriend is inside the house before you try to scare him off?” He puts his hands on his hips indignantly.
I grin, loop an arm around his waist, and kiss his temple. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I was a Marine; mean love is child’s play for me.”
“Ooh,” Harold says, perking up. “Tell us more. Were you naked when you practiced mean love with other Marines?”
There’s nobody to blame for that but myself. I sigh. “You should meet my colleague, Adam.”
“Jordan,” an exasperated voice says, “what the hell are you all doing? We’re waiting, and Calla’s got the cheese.”
It’s becoming fast apparent that getting between these people and the cheeseboard would be a bad idea.
A tall, attractive, familiar-looking man appears behind Jordan and smiles at us. “Hi, Griff. I don’t know if you remember, but we’ve met before. I’m?—”
“Blaise Warner. Yes, I remember. It’s good to see you again.” I’m so glad Phil and I have already talked about his friends some, or I’d be completely thrown right now, faced with a Major League Baseball player and an up-and-coming costume designer I nearly hit on once.
“Come on in. I promise we don’t normally make guests hang out on the doorstep.”
“We weren’t hanging out,” Jordan protests. “We weretalking. There’s a difference.” He stands back, and we all troop inside.
