I hold up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But you’rethinkingit. And your thinking isloud.”
I shrug, doing my best to hide my grin, and Jake groans from where he’s seated, half-asleep, forehead resting on the breakroom’s wooden table. And Ollie…Ollie’s trying to cover a hickey the size of Texas with some of Brit’s foundation.
“I’m just not sure it’s the right shade,” he’s muttering.
I’m not even going to touch that one.
The door swings open, and Kirsten, the hostess, hurries inside.
“What’s up, guys?” she chirps, earning her three sets of death glares. She continues on, oblivious. “Everyone have a good night?”
“Violet,” mutters Jake. “Do something about her.”
Kirsten glances around the room, confused, and I snicker again before managing to extract her from the morose group.
As we head into the dining room, I swallow down a yawn. The breakroom delinquents aren’t the only ones running on five hours of sleep, which brings my thoughts to last night’s interesting discovery by the pool. I checked outside this morning, but both the man and the bourbon were gone. The blanket was folded up and set back on the living room couch, the bottle was returned to its rightful place on the liquor shelf, and the garage was empty. I wonder if Landon’s faring any better than my three co-workers, snickering at the thought of him nursing a hangover, but the sight of Christian McCoy—and a few of his buddies—slithering between tables toward my section sobers me right up.
Stifling a groan, I wish I’d gotten another hour or two of sleep to help me deal with this. I try to assure myself that it will be fine. Maybe I misjudged Christian McCoy. I mean, there’s no use going into a situation thinking the worst, right? That’ll only guarantee a negative outcome. With that in mind, I arrange my face in the most pleasant smile I can muster and greet the table of twenty-something trust-fund babies as though they’re a group of harmless old ladies.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss Daisy,” says Christian, smirking as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. Yeah. I don’t think I misjudged him after all. “Must be my lucky day.”
Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling.
“How are you all doing today?” I ask, glancing around the table before settling back on Christian.
He shrugs, still smirking. “Oh, you know. A little worse for wear.”
“A bit of a rough night,” says the guy to Christian’s right.
“I think I’m still drunk,” mutters the guy to his left.
My smile tightens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed by a little hair of the dog,” says Christian, and the drunk guy groans. Christian rolls his eyes. “Quit being a little bitch, Will. Daisy, we’ll take a round of Bloody Marys, but make Will’s a double. And make sure they’re Grey Goose, beautiful.”
I glance to the rest of the group for confirmation, half expecting Will to protest. He doesn’t, no one does, and it’s clear that what Christian says goes.
“Great. Any appetizers to go with those drinks?”
Christian ignores my question, instead reaching up to thread his finger through the belt loop of my slacks. My smile falters as I try to come up with a plan to politely detach myself, but I know that anything I do he’ll consider rude. And if he thinks I’m rude, he probably won’t tip me well. And if he doesn’t tip me well, all this suffering will be for nothing. “You should come out with us one night. I’ll bet you’re the life of the party.”
He tugs on the loop, reminding me of an obnoxious little kid who yanks the ponytail of the girl he likes, and I can’t help the tense set of my shoulders. “Oh, I’m not much of a partier. So, any appetizers?”
“Nah, nothing yet,” he says brusquely, before steering the conversation back to the place I’d rather avoid. “Will wasn’t a partier before I met him.” He points to the hungover guy who’s about ready to fall over. His face actually looks a little green, and I pray to God he doesn’t puke all over the white tablecloth. “Now look at him. Neither was Shay, really. Hell, you used to drink strawberry daiquiris before you met me, didn’t you? Like a little bitch.” Then he points to the fourth guy at the table. “Kurt, on the other hand…” He laughs. “Kurt’s a crazy motherfucker.”
Kurt grins at me. “He’s got that right, sweetheart.”
Keep smiling. You can do it. Just keep smiling.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about.” I take a step away from the table, forcing Christian to release me. “But let me go put those drink orders in so that they come out as fast as possible. How about that?”
When no one stops me, I make a hasty escape, my smile falling the second my face is turned.
“Damn, that ass,” I hear Kurt mutter, and a dark, twisty feeling takes up residence in my chest. Okay, so that went worse than I thought it would. I make a mental note to stand on the opposite side of the table from Christian next time. And maybe Kurt, too.
“You good?” mouths Brit, catching my eye.
