Normally Andrew would argue, but the restaurant is less than five minutes away, and he doesn’t want to waste time, especially not when Charlie doesn’t actually know where he’s going. He feels bad about keeping it a secret, but Charlie, loyal as he is, has a big fucking mouth, and his entire family would know before midnight. He’s not willing to let them all know about this, not yet.
Maybe it’s going to be fake, but he doesn’t need more people knowing that he can only get himself a boyfriend when it’s not real. Especially not when Nicholas might show up and refuse to agree to the terms Andrew wants to set for their fake dating. The only thing more embarrassing than having a fake boyfriend would be being rejected by one.
“Listen, Charlie, I’ve got to go.”
“Why?” Charlie balks.
“I told you I’m busy tonight, I have a business meeting,” Andrew answers, mollified slightly by the fact that this is not a complete lie. He’s just leaving out the part where the business isn’t related to his actual job but rather acquiring a wealthy, surly, tattoo-covered fake boyfriend for the foreseeable future.
“But—” Charlie is cut off, the sound of someone grabbing the phone crackling through the speakers before Eden’s voice filters through.
“Don’t worry about Charlie, he’s a big boy and can put on his own shoes. He can even wipe his own ass now.”
“Speaking of my ass—” Charlie can be heard saying in the background. When he doesn’t finish the thought, Andrew can only imagine that Eden’s found a way to shut him up.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Eden asks.
“Yeah, I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
“Night, Andrew.”
“Night, Eden.”
The phone disconnects right as Andrew exits the freeway. A few minutes later, the restaurant comes into view on his right, nestled on the edge of the mountainous cliffside.
Andrew picked his favorite place for several reasons. Partly because he wanted to know there would be food he could eat without stressing about the menu, and because if he has to endure another dinner with this asshole, he better be getting an incredible meal out of it.
Pulling into the valet lane, Andrew turns off his radio and waits for the attendant to make their way to his driver's side. They appear quickly, waving him out.
“Evening, sir,” the valet says when Andrew steps out of his car.
It’s not often he comes here. He brought his parents for their anniversary last year, but outside of that he saves it forspecial occasions, alone. It’s expensive, and far outside any of his brothers’ culinary tastes.
“Here’s the keys,” Andrew tells them, unable to ignore the stab of anxiety that always comes with letting anyone else drive his car. It’s a necessity here since the beach front restaurant has no parking lot and thus only valets, but it doesn’t make it easier for Andrew. He doesn’t even enjoy driving but also dislikes other people driving his car. He’s aware it's a control issue, but it's one he’s yet to overcome.
“It’s in good hands, sir,” the valet smiles, possibly sensing Andrew’s apprehension.
“Thank you,” Andrew nods, moving around to the passenger side to retrieve the contract before making his way into the restaurant.
Expectedly, the place is crowded, with the small front entrance filled with people waiting for their reservation while the tables are filled with people already dining. Andrew makes his way to the hostess, giving his name before stepping back to wait. Twenty minutes later, he’s seated at a small table towards the patio with a panoramic view of the ocean—his eyes drawn to the glittering horizon.
The food here is incredible, but this right here is Andrew’s favorite part of the cliffside restaurant—the calming hum of the sea soothes him. Closing his eyes, he folds his hands in his lap and breathes in the ocean air. Between the fresh air and the sound of waves, he’s lulled into relaxation.
“You sleeping or something?”
Startling at the familiar timbre of a deep voice, Andrew opens his eyes and is met with the sight of Nicholas Whitmore, though not like he looked at Amanda and Denise’s house last week. There he was dressed down, albeit in designer sweats but sweats nonetheless, with a clear hangover and disheveled hair. Tonight, he looks like the Nicholas that Andrew is used to seeing splashedacross social media—put together in a way that screams luxury. His classic good looks are juxtaposed sharply by his freshly buzzed undercut and tattoos. He’s wearing a loose fitting black silk shirt with a deep v cut that shows off the array of intricate tattoos on his throat and chest. His pants are perfectly tailored, clinging to his muscled thighs, and his shoes are a pair of designer loafers that Andrew’s been wanting for a year but could never dream of affording.
Nicholas is obscenely attractive, but judging from his expression he knows it, somehow lessening it for Andrew. There’s a fine line between confident and cocky, but Nicholas appears to have barreled over that line.
“You’re staring,” Nicholas smirks, clearly reading too much into it. Sure Nicholas is sexy, but so is a sports car or a nice pair of dress shoes.
“And you’re late,” Andrew counters. There’s no use pretending he wasn’t staring, but he also doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of confirming that Andrew enjoys looking at him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nicholas scoffs. “Amanda told me to be here at seven.”
“And it is—” Andrew lifts his left arm, staring at his watch. “Eighteen minutes after seven.”
“That’s not late,” Nicholas challenges. “It’s less than twenty minutes.”
