“Please grab some ice,” Handsome Guy continues to the server, who has ended his 999 call. The server obediently scurries off.
“Nobody touch his foot. You”—he nods at Billy—“support his shoulders.” He turns to Jaymee. “Can you please clean up the glass shards?”
His voice identifies him as American. It also carries a quiet authority, like he regularly manages crisis situations. Althoughjudging by the quality of the silk suit jacket currently under my head, it’s probably ones involving stock markets rather than syrup attacks.
My ankle continues to throb, the pain radiating up my shin and into my knee.
I grit my teeth, but I can’t prevent my body from doing that involuntary full-body clench thing that happens when pain exceeds your available coping mechanisms.
“I’m so sorry,” Handsome Guy says. His voice is tight with what sounds like genuine distress. “I lost my balance and the syrup just… I tried to catch myself and made everything worse.”
“You accidentally squeezed an entire bottle of syrup at my head?” I ask because even through my pain, I can tell the physics of his story are questionable. Syrup has a high viscosity. You’d need a significant force to achieve that kind of projection arc from a standing stumble.
He flushes slightly. “I—yes. I’ll cover all your medical expenses, of course. Anything you need.”
“My dignity back would be nice, but I think that ship has sailed,” I say as the server returns, breathlessly clutching an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel.
Handsome Guy takes it from him.
“Tell me if this hurts too much,” he says, barely touching the tea towel to my skin, watching my face for any signs of distress. His hands are steady and gentle as he arranges the ice, adjusting it twice when I wince.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, and his voice has dropped to something quiet and careful that makes my chest do something stupid.
The Uber arrives just as spots are starting to mar my vision.
“We’re going to need to help him get out to the Uber,” Handsome Guy instructs Billy.
Billy takes position like he’s spotting someone at the gym, but Handsome Guy essentially becomes my right leg, taking most of my weight with an ease that suggests his shoulders aren’t just decorative.
He smells like expensive coffee and a woodsy cologne, and I can feel the warmth of his hand gripping my waist through my shirt.
The three of us shuffle through the restaurant like the world’s worst conga line.
“Careful, watch the step,” he murmurs near my ear. His warm breath against my neck makes me grateful I can blame any shivering on shock.
A guy I’ve never seen before materializes just as we reach the restaurant door. He’s practically vibrating with millennial tech-bro energy, complete with limited edition sneakers and a smartwatch that’s definitely tracking his stress levels right now. He looks to be a few years older than me, with the kind of carefully messy hair that takes forty minutes to achieve.
“Is everything okay, Leo?”
Leo. Handsome Guy’s name is Leo. It feels right for him, somehow.
Is this his date? But I dismiss the idea as soon as I think it because the body language rules out anything romantic. He’s giving off anxious intern energy, not boyfriend energy. Client, probably. Which raises questions about what kind of business gets conducted at Pirates of Pancake Bay.
“Just a minor medical emergency, Ezra. Email me your quarterly projections, and we’ll reschedule for Monday.”
“Sure thing,” Ezra says.
We continue our tragic parade through the door, where London’s weather has decided to add a light drizzle to my birthday festivities. The Uber is parked half on the curb, hazards blinking. Luckily, it’s an XL because fitting three functioningadults and one broken one into a standard sedan might have been difficult.
Getting me into the back seat requires complicated geometry. Leo basically has to fold himself in half while supporting my weight, and Billy’s giving instructions like it’s a deadlift technique video. “Pivot! No, the other way!” I end up sprawled across the middle seat, broken ankle elevated on Leo’s very expensive lap. Billy folds himself into the back row like a gym-bro origami.
Jaymee materializes at the car door, breathless and triumphant, holding a box that can only be my birthday cake.
“Got it,” she announces, cramming herself into the front seat. “You can’t have your birthday without cake, even if you’re eating it in the Accident & Emergency department.”
As we pull away from Pirates of Pancake Bay, I take stock: broken ankle, syrup-covered hair, and now being escorted to the hospital by an incredibly handsome assailant.
This is definitely not how I imagined my birthday playing out.
