“Fine,” Gordo said. “Be that way. Ignore your brother’s effort to connect on a deeper level.”
“You don’t want to connect on a deeper level.” Zane tied his shoes and picked up his duffel. “You want to gossip about me with Jade, and probably Jack, too. Start following film stars if you’re so interested in people’s private lives. Bound to be more exciting than mine.”
“Maybe I was going to say,” Gordo said, “that as Skylar doesn’t have a convenient granddad at home anymore to leave her kids with, Jade and I could volunteer to babysit so you’d have a prayer of keeping her interested during your rare appearances in Auckland. Did you think of that?”
“I would have,” Zane said, “if that scenario fell within the bounds of possibility. And do I ask you about your social life? Things are fine with mine, thanks, and at home, too. Change is healthy. It’s a muscle, eh.”
“Change is a muscle?” Gordo repeated. “That makes no sense.”
“OK, adapting to change is a muscle. Using a muscle. I don’t know; I just heard it somewhere. Are you about done here?”
“Whanau bonding after the earthquake,” Gordo said musingly. “That’s what I assumed was behind that invite, because unlike you, I’m sensitive. Now, though, I’m wondering. Could it be more? Like …extendedwhanau bonding?”
“Well, wonder away,” Zane said. “If you’re coming to the house, I’ll see you there. As I live there.”
Now, he climbed out of the Uber in front of the SO Hotel in the midst of the madness that was Queen Street on Saturday night. He could’ve done a room at the team hotel, which was reasonably posh and only a five-minute walk from here, but how would Skylar feel when they met a group of theboys in the lobby? Like that booty call, that was how. He might not be sensitive, but he was at least trying. Surely you got points for trying.
Up in the lift to the 38thfloor and stepping out into the dimly lit bar, with its small tables scattered around the perimeter to take full advantage of the view of the city lights. Away from the mobs and the noise, he’d reckoned, and with that hotel room just a few floors down. He had a remote entry key on his phone and was ready to go there right now, but booty call or no, a woman would at least want to go for a drink first, wouldn’t she? Especially a woman like Skylar, who’d had too-fast sex in the dark on the floor first time out,afterhe’d grabbed her and more or less ripped off her clothes.
You see? Sensitive. Or at least trying.
The first wrinkle came at the host stand, where he said, “Booking under ‘Zane.’ Don’t see my date, but she should already be here.” As it was already eleven, and he’d told Skylar, “Sometime after ten-forty-five.”
“Yes,” the bloke said musingly. He was young, slim, and not exactly the rugby type, if you caught Zane’s drift. “We do note on the website that the dress code here is smart casual.”
Zane blinked. “How am I not smart casual? My shirt has buttons, bro.”
“We ask for a jacket,” the bloke said. “And dressy jeans, at a minimum.”
Right. His fault, he guessed. But it was abar.A bar with bookings, which was odd, but who policed a dress code at a hotel bar?
“Got a jacket you could loan me, then?” he said. “As for the jeans, turns out I’ve got some thighs, and those jeans you like the look of don’t tend to fit them.” This was Jade’s column all over again, and he wasn’t even wearing a T-shirt!
The bloke eyed him, and not in a way that said, “How I wish you batted for my team.” His response wasn’t any morepositive, either. “I don’t think we have anything here that would fit you. Sorry.” He didn’t sound especially sorry. More like he couldn’t believe this ruffian had made it all the way up in the lift without being tackled by security. The Steri-Strips bisecting Zane’s left eyebrow probably weren’t helping, or the start of a beauty of a black eye. The bloke looked at his watch. “We close in half an hour. If you’d like to find your party and try a less exclusive venue …” He hadn’t raised his voice, but his body language was getting pretty tense. Also, people were looking around. Brilliant.
Another fella was here now. Bartender, in a black shirt and tight trousers. This one, Zane was fairly sure,didn’tbat for the other team. More the Gordon type. He said, “Zane Mahuta, isn’t it? We’re fairly busy tonight. Saturday, eh. We can probably squeeze you in without a booking, though. Give me a sec to check.”
The host, or whoever he was, said, “May I speak to you a moment?”
“In a bit, you can,” the bartender said. “Just now, I’m finding a table.”
“I can’t just—” the host started.
“I’m meeting somebody, actually,” Zane broke in. “She should be here by now. I’ll go find her, shall I?” He was meant to be an alpha male, whatever that actually meant. He’d read it in the newspaper. He wasn’t exactly covering himself with glory here, though. To make it worse, he was a Kiwi, which meant that if he ever said, “Do you know who I am?” he’d be tossed out of the country.
“Zane?” A voice behind him. A low, breathy voice that he knew well. “Is there a problem?”
He turned around. And blinked.
Well, that was one choice.
When you sat at a table in a flash bar on the 38thfloor of a luxury hotel for too long, you got one of two things. Drunk, or nervous. All right, three things, because it was apparently possible to get both drunkandnervous.
She’d got to the hotel a little after ten, since Granddad had taken the kids to Zane’s house after the match—God forbid that he’d take them toherhouse—had taken a fast shower to get, well … ready for the rest of the evening, had dressed in the first of her makeover outfits and done her hair and makeup as the lady at the cosmetics counter had suggested this afternoon, and then had rushed up here, since she’d been nearly late.
And had sat for twenty minutes, during which she’d drunk her entire glass of red wine, which hadn’t even been all that delicious. And wondered if Zane had thought better of it.
Of course not. He wouldn’t do that. He’s delayed, that’s all. He has … team things to do. Bao buns and sushi to eat. Probably a beer to drink, and he has to trade jerseys with the Italians or whatever it is they do.The All Blacks had won, to nobody’s surprise, but mainly, she’d watched Zane. Like, yes, a schoolgirl with a crush. He hadn’t been skipper, but he’d led the haka, and seeing him do it in person, his feet stamping, his thighs bulging in those tight shorts, his hand slapping an enormous bicep … Let’s just say that she apparently didn’t need estrogen cream yet.
