The burn of the alcohol trailed a fiery path down my throat to my chest, where it seemed to burst into flames.
“I mean, you’ve known him for a while now, right?”
“For-fucking-ever, unfortunately.”
Benoit’s fingers stopped circling the rim of his glass. “Forever?”
Shit.
“Didn’t you start going to St. Andrews just a couple of months before you introduced all of us?”
Sure. At least, that was the story I’d told all of them. Be nice if I could remember that.
Fucking tequila.
“I knew him a bit before that,” I mumbled. No use trying to backtrack now.
“How long before?”
My head snapped up, and something in my eyes must’ve told Benoit he was wading through dangerous waters, because he picked his glass up and saluted me.
“Or we can just saya while.”
We both threw back a shot, and I nodded. “A long fucking while.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No one does,” I said, then rushed out, “But it’s not like it’s a secret.”
“Of course not. Why would it be?”
Because I can’t stop imagining the way his mouth felt under mine…
“No reason. So yeah, we knew each other as kids. We were altar boys.”
Benoit snorted.“Désolé.I’m just trying to imagine that. You as an altar boy.”
“I’m Catholic.”
“I know, but…” Benoit bit down into his lower lip to hold back a laugh. “I’m just… Have you seen you? You don’t exactly look like an altar boy.”
“Yeah? And does Rafa—Father Vitale look like a priest?”
Benoit opened his mouth, but then it clicked shut. “Good point.”
Several more shots followed that admission, because yeah, now I was thinking about the fact that Rafael looked nothing like any holy man should.
He was statuesque, golden, perfect.
Sun-kissed by God himself.
I needed to dim that light in my mind, that shining beacon he was to all, and if that meant getting blind drunk and passing out for the night, then that was what I’d do.
“Benoit?”
“Oui, mon cher?”
“Order another bottle.”
