“You were not.” Ivy points a finger at her. “You said you wanted a third bottle!”
“I'm a complicated person, Ivy. I want many things at once, and at this particular moment I’d like more champagne but I’m also craving a cheeky afternoon session with McFilthy.”
“Becks!” Ivy yells. “Don’t let this bastard ruin our brunch. Just because he’s ridiculously rich and disgustingly good-looking.”
The other patrons glance over, amused.
“It’s way past brunch time, darling. Let your knight in shining armor save you from tomorrow’s hangover. I’m sure he’ll feed and hydrate you, and… well.”
Ivy crosses her arms, pretending to be petulant. “I refuse to let the patriarchy gatecrash this spectacular bacchanalia.”
“Oh, to the contrary. The bacchanalia will continue.” I arch a brow at Becks. “Stay. The cabana is paid for the rest of the afternoon. Have McFilthy join you. There's a room booked downstairs in your name from six o'clock.”
Becks's eyes go bright.
“Alistair Ravenscroft.”
“Yes.”
“You absoluteprince.”
“Mm.”
“Saint Ives, your husband is a prince.”
“Ugh,” says Ivy. “Don't let it go to his head.”
“I will let it go to my head,” I say. “Up.”
“Patience, you caveman. I am putting on mysandal.”
“Faster.”
“Alistair. I amquite drunk, do not rush me.”
She is fumbling, and the sandal strap defeats her.
I bend, lift her up, sling her over my shoulder, and stand up. Becks squeals in delight.
“Alistair!”
“Mm.”
“Alistair Gregory Ravenscroft.”
“Yes.”
“This is apublic space.”
“It is.”
“There arewitnesses.”
“There are.”
“You are picking me up like asack of potatoes.”
“You're a great deal more attractive than a sack of potatoes.”
