“We’ll see,” I mutter, lifting my pint. Cyril retreats almost soundlessly. God knows what Ryan would think of the place, but I’m getting ahead of myself. “So.” I put my pint down, turn it thirty degrees or so to the right. “I met her in New York,” I say, studying the condensation on the glass. “The night of the wedding.”
“Perhaps you ought to give me my money back,” Oliver murmurs. “Sounds like I was right.”
“He hasn’t finished yet,” Fin says with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Go on.”
“After the wedding, and after I hung up on you, I more or less bumped into her.” Which is better than the truth: that she accosted me.
“That’s what’s called a meet-cute,” Fin says for Oliver’s benefit. “No need to kidnap a woman from her own wedding.”
“Hilarious,” Oliver drawls, unimpressed.
“So you bumped into her,” Fin says, turning my way. “And ... then you lost touch? Until you saw her again today.”
“Which is just another way of saying it was a one-night stand,” Oliver says without judgment. He makes a gesture with his hand: palm facing the ceiling, finger curling in and back. Sort ofgive me my money back.
“Since when have you two become gossiping auld women? Ah, that’s right,” I mutter, folding my arms across my chest. “Since the pair of you got married. Slippers and pipe by the fire and stickin’ your noses in other people’s lives.”
“Oooh!” Fin intones. “Someone’s got his panties in a wad. Green panties, to boot.”
I can’t help but smile. He meansjealous, but I’m thinking of green gossamer lace and the treasures beneath.All that loveliness.“Look, we spent the night together, and she left while I was sleeping.”
“A perfect ending.” A pause. “What?” Oliver glances between us. “At least in my experience. Mypreviousexperience.”
Fin looks momentarily confused. “Do you not know how to use that thing?”
“Eh?” But I follow his drift as his eyes drop to the table. I make a noise of disgust.
“Being hung doesn’t mean you don’t have to put in the work.”
“Jaysus,” I mutter. “It was nothing like that.”
“If she didn’t stick around, then maybe she thought it wasn’t worth repeating.”
“He might have a point,” Oliver puts in. “Back in my single days, I was usually the first to leave. After morning sex. It was quite convenient living in a hotel.”
“Would the pair of youse just shut the hell up for a second?” I demand, slipping into the vernacular. “She didn’t leave becauseshe didn’t enjoy herself. She left because she thought I was a fucking escort!”
Again, the pair says nothing, maybe because my retort seems to echo rudely in the room. Oliver gives a sudden nod, one that’s preceded by an indignant huff and the violent shuffle of a newspaper from a nearby table.
“Good evening, Viscount Radler,” Oliver offers, biting back a grin. “You’ll have me blackballed,” he murmurs, turning my way.
“He’d be doing you a favor,” mutters Fin.
“Thrown out of my own club for entertaining undesirable sorts?”
“I thought he was asleep,” Fin says.
“I thought he was dead.” The two of them glance sharply my way. “What? He’s got feckin’ muttonchops—men haven’t worn muttonchops for more than a hundred years.” And he’s always there in the same position, hiding behind a copy ofThe Times. “I thought maybe he’d been stuffed or something.”
“Unlike your girl,” Fin retorts as quick as a flash.
I slide him a look that very eloquently says,Get. Fucked.
“What do you mean she thought you were an escort?” Oliver leans in, all discreet drawl and disdain. He slides his fingers over the base of a glass of wine, which is probably something unpronounceable and ridiculously expensive. To be fair, my taste in whiskey runs the same way.
“Just what I said.” I adjust the cuffs of my shirt under my jacket, the thing suddenly no longer fitting right. “She even left me an envelope stuffed with cash. My fee or my tip or—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Fin holds up a hand. “Youchargedher?”
