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I’m not signing up for that ride.
Once we’re all settled at the table, Wells addresses me. “Ivy says you’re expecting calls from a couple of politicians, Celeste. Heard from either yet?”
“Actually, yes. One of them called on my way here.” I sip my coffee, hoping the conversation moves to someone else at the table, but having no material in my arsenal to deflect with.
“Oh,” Ivy says, setting down her fork. “You didn’t tell me. Who? Did you make plans?” Her disapproval is shining through that inquiry, as is her concern.
I haven’t told her much of anything, other than my grandfather’s plan to set me up on dates while I’m here. This conversation would be better held privately, especially since I have yet to internet-stalk the guy, as he suggested.
“Scott Filmore. He left a message,” I supply, hoping that’s sufficient.
“Cary Grant,” Ty provides, to which Ivy finishes, “An Affair to Remember, Nick Ferrante.”
I bust up laughing, understanding this nonsense more than anyone should. “He’s a playboy?”
Ivy pushes her plate away and wipes her hands even though it’s not even half consumed. “Absolutely. As magnetic as they come. He’s toned down the last few years, trying to get serious. In his early thirties. Running for lieutenant governor and expected to be a presidential candidate in the future. He’s well loved, but I wouldn’t trust him.”
“That could be said about all the yahoos you deal with,” Liam quips. He’s not eating either now, posture rigid.
“Yahoos?” Gage jeers, the shiny bronze skin of his bald head scrunching. “Who the hell are you?”
That loosens Liam up. He presses his back into his chair and chuckles. “I’m working on my language, blockhead.”
To that, Ty and Ivy crack up, Wells mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and Gage snarls, “Natasha’s not even here, dipshit.”
“The baby is,” Liam reasons. “And we can’t earmuff the kid for the next eighteen years.”
Ivy lifts her decaf pumpkin coffee, pausing the cup in midair before taking a drink. “That’s valid. He or she can already hear everything we say. Wells plays his classical music to my belly every night.”
Liam quirks a cocky brow. “See, Big Guy.”
“I call bullshit,” Gage huffs, biting into a powdery beignet.
“How do you guys get anything done?” I ask, mesmerized by the chaos that so quickly ensues.
That wins me favor with Wells, who tips his head to me as he slides Ivy’s plate in front of her and places the fork in her hand in what appears to be an order to keep eating. “It’s like herding fucking cats, Celeste.”
Ty chirps, “Earmuffs, baby,” at the same time Liam snipes, “Language, Chief,” the whole table dissolving into a fit of laughter.
Maybe I do see a bit of the appeal to this crew.
“Back on topic,” Wells barks. “Do you plan to meet up with this Mr. Filmore?”
Before I can answer, Ivy shoves her plate away again. “I just said I didn’t trust him.”
“Ivanna,” he growls like some sort of caveman warning while shooting daggers at her half-eaten protein pancakes. “What basis do you have for that?”
“Because he’s a politician, Gavin,” she snaps through her clenched teeth as he hands her the fork. Again.
“They all are, Little Storm. That’s who she’s being set up with. Give me facts or gut instincts to convince me, not prejudice for an entire profession.”
“He’s right, Ivy,” I venture as her creamy skin pinks. Maybe I should’ve worded that differently. “All I mean is, I know what I’m signing up for. He seems like a catch even though I’m hunting cheetahs.”
“The fuck is that analogy?” Gage asks between bites. His appetite doesn’t waver with the discussion, although he’s built like The Rock, so it must work for him.
“My father hunts. Safaris sometimes,” I explain. “Cheetahs are beautiful, but the meat is useless. Can’t eat it. Kind of like a pretty face on an empty shell.”
Gage strokes his thumb and index finger over his goatee, squinting his eyes in approval. “I like it.”
