Chapter 10 Rule #10 A casual dinner with friends is nothing to be scared of. #2
Watching Archer, I notice the way he never seems to take offense to anything.
He’s always rolling with the punches, so to speak, and laughing it off whenever anyone points out things I know would make a normal person feel attacked.
It makes me wonder what he’s hiding underneath all that bravado, and what does one have to do to get it out?
The server comes by, and we each order our drinks. A French 75 for Freya. A draft beer for Archer. And a glass of Dalmore for me.
While we wait for our drinks, Archer keeps the conversation going, asking Freya about her movie last night, where she apparently saw a replaying of Casablanca in an old theater.
Then he asks me about the club again, prodding for information about how my dad owned it first, but I don’t divulge much information there. Not without a few drinks in me.
Maybe I’ll tell him about the time I looked under my parents’ bed—a mistake I only made once.
Once the server sets the drinks on the table, Archer picks his up, holding it forward as he says, “To new friends.”
“To new friends,” Freya replies with a smile.
When they both look at me, it’s as if I’m standing on the outside of this circle, being invited in. So why do I feel so hesitant? Why am I constantly trying to erect this wall between us when at the core of my mind, I know the truth?
I like them. I really do.
I like her flair and his charisma. And I want them to like me.
So, swallowing my nerves and whatever nagging voice in the back of my head it is that keeps telling me I’m better off alone, I lift my glass.
“New friends?” I ask, even managing a crooked smile. “And here I thought this was a date.”
They both light up, and I feel a hint of pride in that. Clinking our glasses together, we all take a drink, staring at each other over the rims.
Our plates are emptied and our bellies full as Archer entertains us with an animated story about the first time he flew a helicopter at only nine years old.
I’m almost a hundred percent sure he’s embellishing the story for dramatic effect, but Freya is leaned back in her chair, her hand on her stomach as she laughs so hard, she hiccups.
So if he’s lying, it’s worth it.
With an elbow on the table and yet another empty glass in my hand, I watch him with interest. I could listen to him speak for hours, which is a new sensation for me. I normally despise people who talk too much or for too long, but Archer commands attention.
He dominates any space he’s in, and I am his willing submissive.
Okay, I’ve had too many drinks. That’s definitely a sign. When I start picturing myself in very alluring and provocative positions with a person, I know it’s time to slow down.
And yet when the server comes back around and Archer waves her down, I find myself holding up my glass to ask for another. I know I should call it quits soon, but everything is going so well.
The conversation is easy. The laughter is effortless. My mind is quiet.
Why would I call it quits on this?
The laughter subsides and we’re left in silence, each of us nurturing a strong alcohol buzz. I can see it in Freya’s constant smile and in Archer’s glazed-over eyes. It makes me feel better about my own diminished inhibitions.
Freya’s hand rests on the table, drumming her chipped, black-painted nails on the lacquer. She has a stunning emerald necklace around her neck, a faded gold chain with tiny diamonds set around a large green gem.
Without a sober mind to stop me, I reach out and run my finger over the emerald against her chest. She freezes, her gaze settled on my face.
“It’s my grandmother’s,” she says softly. Just the tender sound of her voice tugs on my heart. Each word she speaks about her family is laced with love, and it’s so obvious.
“It’s beautiful,” I reply. My middle finger draws tiny circles over the large emerald. The air between us feels heavier, loaded with something none of us can say.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I miss my family.”
“Where are they?”
“California, mostly. My grandmother, my parents, my brothers and sisters.”
“Big family,” Archer adds.
Freya nods with heavy emotion in her eyes as she keeps her eyes down on her hand, so I drift my touch from her necklace to fingers. I’ve noticed this look on her before. This deep contemplation, woven with longing and guilt. I wonder if she feels bad for leaving her family behind.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I got a job in a restaurant, a dream job, really. But then…I lost it.”
I sense Archer’s brows furrowing same as mine. “How?” he asks.
Freya takes a steadying breath. “The head chef didn’t like me very much.”
“Impossible,” he says, cutting her off.
Freya’s lips tug into a lopsided smirk. “He was a prick. A sexist, racist asshole who liked to shout at us and call us names, especially women and especially me. Like, I get that the kitchen can sometimes be…a volatile, high-stress environment, but I can’t stand it when that gives jerks like him a free pass to treat everyone like shit. ”
The server delivers our new drinks, and we each bring them to our lips without hesitation. I don’t know who this guy is that she’s talking about, but I know plenty like him. She won’t tell us the name; I know that already. Because she knows we’d probably have it shut down in minutes.
“So anyway,” she says on a sigh, placing her glass back on the table. “I called him out on his bullshit, and it got me fired.”
“Fuck him,” Archer mutters.
“Yeah,” she replies. “Except now I’m struggling to stay in Paris, and as much as I miss my family, I don’t want to go home with my tail between my legs. This feels like my one chance. It’s all the more reason for me to open my own restaurant.”
“You will,” I mumble, reaching out and placing my hand on hers again.
“Fuck yeah, you will,” Archer says. Then, after a beat, he adds, “We’ll help you.”
Freya huffs. “You’ll help me open my restaurant in Paris? I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not help I need. It’s money.”
I already know the next words that will come out of his mouth before she even finishes her sentence, because I am thinking the same thing.
“Well, I have money,” Archer says, so matter-of-factly it makes her laugh.
“Rub it in, Arch,” she replies.
“No, I mean…let me invest in your restaurant.”
“Us,” I blurt out without a second thought. “Let us invest in your restaurant.”
They both glance my way, and I spot the surprise in their expressions. They didn’t expect me to be as benevolent as Archer, and honestly, neither did I.
“Yeah…us,” Archer adds, sounding uncertain.
Freya’s posture stiffens as she stares across the table, her gaze dancing back and forth between us. I see the way she hesitates to cling to this hope that what we’re offering could be real.
“Very funny,” she jokes.
“I’m not kidding,” he argues. “Let us give you the money you need.”
“You don’t even know me,” she says, looking into his eyes with confusion.
“Sure I do. I know you can fucking cook because I tasted it myself. I watched you tend to Julian when he was having a panic attack in the elevator, even after he was such a dick to you, so I know you’re a compassionate person.”
The memory of her voice in that moment comes crashing to the front of my mind. And I don’t even care that he called me a dick because he’s right. She had every reason to hate me, and yet when I needed someone to calm my erratic breathing and keep me grounded, she was there. She didn’t hesitate.
Archer continues. “I watched you lug in that giant bag full of food, which means you’re a hard worker and fucking determined when you need to be.”
Freya’s hand is still under mine, and it must be the whiskey that has me caressing her knuckles with my thumb. But seeing the way this conversation makes her feel uneasy has me wanting to calm her…the way she did for me.
“You’re really serious, aren’t you?” she asks with moisture building in her eyes.
“I’m really fucking serious,” he replies.
She turns her gaze to me. “And what about you?”
My mouth is set in a flat line as I struggle to find the words. I’m not as talkative as Archer. Not nearly as convincing. The most I can manage is a nod.
“Yeah, of course,” I murmur.
She lets out a small scoff, rolling her eyes as she lifts her drink and gulps half of it down in one go.
There’s a bitterness in her expression. Not as if she’s mad at us for offering but maybe mad at the fact that she now has to choose to take it.
Freya has pride, and I actually really like that about her.
But it’s that pride that could stand in her way.
I don’t blame her for wanting to earn this money herself.
“I’ll think about it,” she says with a drunk smile over the rim of her glass.
“You better,” Archer demands with a stern look. It quickly melts into a grin as he reaches across the table and strokes Freya’s cheek.
As he leans back in his chair, he sprawls, letting his knees spread.
When he does, his right leg lands against my own.
Tensing, I glance over at him, wondering if he thinks contact like this is friendly or casual or if he realizes that his overwhelming sex appeal has other people’s blood pressure spiking.
He seems unaffected by the way our legs are touching…and he doesn’t bother moving it away. With her hand touching my hand and his leg touching my leg, I can’t help but notice that things between the three of us have definitely taken a turn.