Still, it made Katie laugh. Even Sheila cracked a brief smile.
A waiter brought over a stack of menus and a bottle of champagne “on the house.” The Granshire actually kept a case there, just so the couple felt celebrated. Nate popped the cork and poured glasses for them all. Fiona giggled when the bubbles overflowed the glass. Sheila primmed her lips in disapproval but let him dole out a half measure for her.
“To Katie and Bradley,” Nate said. He bypassed direct mention of the wedding. Even if Sheila did leave the “Katie” out of her return toast, it was ignorable, especially when it was half drowned under Fiona’s enthusiastic reply.
They agreed on coffee and settled down to peer over the menu. No venison sausages, thankfully. Nate had just decided to indulge in the most stickily indulgent thing on the menu—without dwelling on why—when Katie raised her faded eyebrows and peered over his shoulder.
“I take it that’s who the extra seat is for?” she said.
Nate twisted around. Their waiter was taking Flynn on a winding route through the tables. He’d lost the overalls. The jeans and black T-shirt underneath weren’t quite as nice as his clothes of the night before, but they’d definitely do.
A low mutter of disapproval spread from table to table. The diners eyed Flynn’s back with a mixture of curiosity and dislike. He wasn’t a popular man on the island.
“Yes. He is. I’ll just be a minute, Katie.”
He stood up as Flynn edged by Dottie Tancredi and her giant, suspiciously snoring purse. She scooted her chair away and glared at his back.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
“And stand you up?” Flynn asked. His mouth twitched with a flicker of dry humor. “That’d make me a pretty bad boyfriend, wouldn’t it?”
He reached out, curled his hand around Nate’s neck, his fingers warm and rough against the skin, and brushed a kiss over Nate’s mouth. It was a light skim of lips, a hint of tea and peppermint on Flynn’s breath, not some passionate dip and smooch, but Nate still caught himself leaning into the kiss with his hand curled around Flynn’s arm as though he could pull him close.
Curiosity, he told himself. There had been a sweaty teenage time when “How does Flynn Delaney kiss?” was a question that occupied a lot of Nate’s idle hours. Just after “How does Brad Pitt kiss?” and “Would my mum hate me if she knew?”
Since he’d probably never get a chance to kiss Flynn again once the “leave me alone” clause was invoked, he might as well get his answers—even if it was only a show kiss. But the kiss lingered longer than was really necessary for a “hello,” and they were in a public place. After a second, Flynn drew back and Nate let him. His fingers slid down Flynn’s arm—all hard muscle and warm skin.
“Flynn, this is Katie McCreary, her mother, Fiona, and her ‘mother-in-law to be’, Sheila,” Nate said. “This is my boyfriend, Flynn.”
The lie slid easily off his tongue. It felt strange, as though he half expected someone to burst out laughing and call him a liar. And he enjoyed saying it too much.
“Nice to meet you,” Flynn said. He leaned over the table and clasped Katie’s bitten-nailed hand in his. “Congratulations, Katie.”
She went a little pink around the nose and giggled her thank-you as Nate slid back into his seat. It was good to know that he wasn’t the only one who found that low rasp… distracting.
Flynn sat down next to Nate, bumped their knees together under the table, and glanced over the menu. Once their companions were distracted with arguing over the merits of their favorite dishes, he leaned in. He slung his arm over the back of the chair and cupped Nate’s shoulder.
“So, do you want me to eat with my mouth open and hit on the waiter?” he asked in a whisper.
An image flashed through Nate’s mind—the waiter bent over the bar while Flynn growled dirty talk in his ear. It was ridiculous, but it still generated a jab of sour envy that made him choke on his coffee.
He muttered an excuse about it being hotter than he thought, set the cup back down in its saucer, and picked up the napkin to wipe his lips.
Before he could hiss out a denial, Flynn chuckled darkly and scraped a stubble-rough kiss over his cheek.
“Don’t choke. I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised.
“If you want a reward, I can get a crate of Max’s beer,” Nate told him.
That got a whole laugh out of Flynn, and Katie glanced away from the debate about whether she could eat a rib and still lace her dress. She glanced at Nate curiously with big blue eyes.
“Max?” she said. “The bar manager?”
“Yes,” Nate said. “Max is an old friend of mine, and—”
“And despite the good taste he shows in friends,” Flynn said as he ruffled Nate’s hair, “he’s got god-awful taste in beer. I’d rather be nose deep in silage than drink some of his brews, and I’vebeennose deep in silage.”
Katie leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “I just don’t know what to ask about first,” she said with laughter in her voice.
