Chapter 8 Christopher
Saturday
Ican’t tell if the pounding in my head is from consuming too much alcohol or the fact that Stephen hasn’t stopped talking since Alexander came to my room last night. It feels like the Spanish inquisition, only with an Irish accent.
How do I know Alexander?
Do I think he’s gay?
His questions come so quickly that I don’t have time to answer.
At one point last night, he even fired up Grindr to see if Alexander might be on there as a headless torso.
He flung his phone on the bedside table when it turned out the closest guy was roughly two hundred meters away—close enough to potentially be in the hotel—but far enough away to confirm it wasn’t him.
Stephen’s disappointment is written all over his face.
I have to swallow mine down and push it aside.
I’m kicking myself for agreeing to let Stephen come back to my room when he didn’t want to call it a night—especially after I’d had to miss the previous night due to my travel issues.
His sad face had pulled at my heartstrings.
Guilt will be the death of me.
Now Alexander probably thinks Stephen is some random guy I brought back for a pump and dump, or worse, my boyfriend. My stomach churns at the thought.
Even in his sleep, Stephen was talking in between snores, such is his penchant for chatting away whether anyone is listening or not. All of this leaves me hungover, grumpy, and lethargic as we make our way down to the atrium for breakfast.
By the time we sit down, Stephen has finally stopped talking my ear off.
Not to give his vocal cords a break, but to begin chewing, if that’s what one would call it, the pile of buffet food on his plate.
He’s loaded his tray with a pile of sausages, bacon, baked beans, fruit, a muffin, and two fried eggs.
A slice of smoked salmon dangles off the side.
I slouch into the padded chair, pushing my sunglasses up my nose and pulling down my baseball cap, hoping it will hide the fact that I am on tenterhooks, waiting to see if Alexander will make his way into the dining room.
Just the smell of Stephen’s food is enough to make me dry heave, let alone the taste of the Taittinger champagne he insisted on both of us having.
I rub the side of my cheek.
God knows how I’m going to make it through my sister’s hen do later.
“I wonder if he’ll be down here for breakfast,” Stephen says between mouthfuls. He scans the room like a hunter on the prowl.
“I doubt it. Especially not with vultures like you trying to swoop in and pick him up,” I say. I shake my head as Stephen reaches for one of the strawberries on his plate and chucks it at me. He misses, hitting the woman at the table next to us.
Stephen ducks his head, hiding underneath the spare baseball cap I loaned him, leaving me to face her glare.
He had been insistent that he come down to breakfast wearing what he wore last night.
Stephen prefers to call it the stride of pride, rather than the walk of shame, but I insisted he change into a clean black T-shirt and shorts.
I admire his confidence in wearing what he does.
But there’s only so much embarrassment I can take, and last night’s attire was not appropriate for a hotel like this.
I twist my neck slightly and see the look of disdain from the woman he’d hit, who is now moving the strawberry onto her empty plate. She and her companion get up to leave.
“I’m so sorry—he’s on a trial run in society, and clearly, it’s not going well.”
My tentative smile dies as the woman shakes her head and walks off. Stephen kicks my ankle under the table, forcing my attention back to him.
“If anyone needs to be locked up in a padded cell, it’s you,” he says. His nostrils flare as he scoops up another mouthful of baked beans.
“And leave you out here unsupervised?” I furrow my eyebrows and rub my shin.
Stephen may not be a good pitcher, but he can definitely kick.
“Another glass?” the waitress asks Stephen, stopping him from retorting.
Stephen’s sour face softens at the thought of more alcohol.
Thank God for small mercies.
He looks at my champagne flute, barely touched, compared to the last dregs at the bottom of his.
“Sure, that’d be grand. And while you’re at it, could you rustle up something a little stronger for my friend here? A Bloody Mary perhaps.”
The waitress nods and walks away. Stephen reaches across for my champagne and downs it in one before launching into another monologue, simultaneously chowing down on one of his sausages.
I smile and nod, looking down at my untouched sausage sandwich, when Stephen stops talking. I look up, worried that speaking with his mouth full has finally backfired, but there’s no food left in his open mouth. His eyes widen as a dark shadow engulfs me from behind.
Weird?
The light pouring in from the glass roof, six floors above us, still seems to be lighting up the rest of the tables and the buffet across the room.
“Is this table taken?”
My heart leaps into my throat as I recognize the Northern Californian accent. Stephen shakes his head back and forth, mouth still open.
Alexander sits down diagonally from me at the table to the right of Stephen and I, forcing me to move my chair slightly to the side to get a better view of him.
He’s wearing a blue LA Dodgers baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a loose-fitted tank that’s cut so deeply at the side I can make out his ripped abs.
Damn.
This man is all kinds of fine.
He manages to make even what I’m assuming is hangover attire sexy as fuck.
“Heavy night, guys?” he asks, nodding at the drinks the waitress puts down for us. His voice is raspier than yesterday.
Beneath the table, I twirl my thumbs, trying to hide my discomfort.
As if last night wasn’t painful enough.
Now I’m trapped here with him and Stephen again.
“You could say that,” Stephen eventually says, like he finally got his voice back from Ursula. It saves me from the growing discomfort rising in my chest as Alexander remains focused on me.
“Let me clear this for you, gentlemen.” The waitress picks up the used plates in front of Rob and Alexander. “Can I get you started with a drink, perhaps?”
“I’ll take an iced Americano, please,” Alexander responds with a smile.
“A black coffee, thanks.” Rob says, and his nod sends the waitress away.
“Sorry about last night,” Alexander says, switching his gaze between Stephen and me. “I didn’t get back till late, and the fans outside seemed louder than usual. I hope those earbuds worked. Wouldn’t want you having two bad nights of sleep in a row.” The right side of his mouth lifts.
“Sure, no bother.” Stephen takes it upon himself to lead the conversation after quickly knocking back another mouthful of champagne. “You wouldn’t happen to have another pair, would ya? This one’s been keeping me awake for years with his snoring.” He points his thumb at me.
The discomfort in my chest instantly turns to irritation, and I lean forward and kick Stephen under the chair.
The cheek.
“What d’ya do that for?” Stephen’s brows furrow.
“I’m sure we can get another pair,” Alexander says. A smile forms on his face as he looks at the pair of us. Rob, in the meantime, completely ignores the bickering and takes his phone out. Stephen raises his eyebrows at me as he reaches for his champagne again.
“Have you guys been together for a while then?” Alexander asks, waving his finger between us.
Stephen spits his mouthful of champagne all over me.
“God, no! Would you look at him?” His face screws up in disgust. “It’d be like sleeping with my brother, but worse.”
I reach for the napkin beside my plate, squeezing it tightly before wiping the champagne from my face and top. I don’t know if I’m more angry at Stephen for doing that in front of Alexander, or more relieved that Stephen has ruled out that the two of us are definitely not a thing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says. “It’s just when you said for years, I assumed you were partners.” He reaches up for the coffee that the waitress passes to him.
“Oh God, his standards are so low, he’s resorted to using a shovel,” Stephen says, laughing. He looks away from me toward Alexander.
“Says the man who taught me that desperate was actually a lifestyle choice,” I shoot back, knocking the smile from his face. I shift my shoulders back and reach for the Bloody Mary, taking a sip and instantly regretting it as immediate heartburn rises.
Touché, motherfucker. Touché.
Alexander lets out a laugh, stopping Stephen in his tracks.
“You two are like peas in a pod,” he says, leaning back and reaching for his coffee.
“More like two ice cubes in a glass, trying to be cool, but both due for a meltdown,” I say.
Alexander smirks as Stephen cuts me a dirty look.
Fuck.
Did I just say that out loud? I wince.
God, I need to get my mouth wired shut like Kanye.
“You Brits are so funny.” Alex puts his coffee back down on the table.
“Irish,” Stephen coughs, insulted by the insinuation.
“Right.” Alex nods, looking at Stephen momentarily before returning his attention to us both. “What are you guys up to later then?”
“I’m free as a bird,” Stephen says, leaning forward. His cutlery scrapes against the plate as he shovels the last of his food onto his fork and almost throws it into his mouth.
I look at him, confused, knowing that he agreed to attend Kelly’s bachelorette party today because he won’t make the wedding.
“Well, if you guys want, I’m playing at the O2 tonight. Rob can get a couple of tickets for you both if you give him your name and number.”
“We’d love to,” I say politely, holding my hand out across the table to stop Stephen from talking. “But it’s my sister’s bachelorette party today. She’ll kill me if I don’t come.” My heart sinks at this new roadblock in the way of Alexander and I spending more time together.