When he puts it that way ...
It takes me almost an hour to drive there. This had better be worth it. It’s right by The Garden, so parking is a pain. They don’t even have valet. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I mean, the place looks okay. It looks like the type of place I would pick—if it were in my neighborhood. I bet they have good steaks. The late-July night has cooled down enough that sitting outside would be nice.
I see Callaghan waiting at the host station. “We should grab a table outside.” I nod my head toward the brick patio.
He shakes his head. “We’re this way.”
“Come on, man. It’s nice and there are tables out there.”
Entay stops. “Jesus, Nix, can’t you do anything without an argument?”
I hold up my hands. “No need to get your panties in a wad. It just looked nice out there. It’s not a big deal. You don’t need to overreact.”
I get this sort of thing a lot. People expect me to fly off the handle or fight them, so they fight first. Maybe ...just maybe... this is something I should bring up to Watson Ross. Like, why are people always picking a fight with me, when I haven’t even done anything?
It’s obviously a them problem.
Still, he should be able to teach me a magic saying, like “slow your roll” or something to keep people from being wound too tightly around me.
I follow Entay through the restaurant to a back room. Where the restaurant itself is dark wood, polished tile, black accents, and cast in a red hue from the awnings that overhang all the windows, this room looks like something out of a dollhouse. The wood is lighter. There are greens and pinks and flowers.
Yuck.
And then I see Andi Nichols sitting at a back corner booth with Hannah LaRosa. Double yuck.
For Andi, not Hannah. I don’t have a reason to think that way about Hannah yet, but I have a feeling I’ll get there soon enough. After all, we’re in a storybook setting, and she brought a person who hates me.
This is not going to go well.
Chapter 17: Andi
The moment BrandonNix walks in, I want to run out. This is not a good idea, and it’s not going to work. I don’t know what I was thinking. I grip the edge to prevent myself from vaulting over the table and sprinting for the door.
It’s odd to see him outside of workout clothes or his soccer uniform. Jeans and a faded red T-shirt. Red hair tie on his wrist. Those same flip-flops he wore on the plane. Does he own anything besides these and his soccer cleats? His hair is down, with waves and curls most women would sell their souls to have, despite the bad bleach job that is growing out. Trimming about five inches off would do him wonders. He’s wearing black-rimmed glasses, which totally changes his look.
For the better, that is.
