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Michael glowers. "It’s eleven-fucking-a.m.," he says through gritted teeth.
"It’s 5 o’clock somewhere. Besides, the two of you need to chill before you burst a coronary." I curve my lips.
"At your advanced age, I’d say you’re the more likely candidate for cardiac arrest," Sinclair scoffs.
"I only have fifteen years on you, ol’ chap, and ten on you, I believe," I retort as I nod in Michael’s direction.
He firms his lips. "How the fuck do you know so much about us?"
"The same way you know so much about me. Let’s not waste each other’s time. None of us would be alone in a room with the other if we didn’t know exactly who we were dealing with."
Both stay quiet. The silence continues for a beat. Another. I sniff the whiskey in my tumbler.
"A word of advice? Never take your anger out on the whiskey, ol’ chaps." I glance between them. Neither makes a move. "No?" I shrug. "Your loss." I raise my glass. "Cheers, or as my old man would say, Cheers toDebeers." I take a swig of the whiskey and the notes of aged oak and spices permeate my senses. "Hmm," I sniff at my drink appreciatively. "Nothing like aged Macallan to cast a golden glow on all that I survey."
"Do you always talk like that—like you’re in a bad British sitcom?" Michael murmurs.
"There are no bad Brit situational comedies, ol’ chap. Only cleverly executed, extremely witty, banter-filled shows. Perhaps you were referring to the piss-poor American versions of what passes for comedy programs?"
Sinclair whistles. "I’ll drink to that."
"You do realize my loyalties lie with both Uncle Sam and my motherland?" Michael says slowly.
"Given you speak with an American accent, I’d assume no less." I smirk.
"Unfortunately, the Brit sense of humor is the only thing I respect about your culture," he retorts.
"You mean you’re not an aficionado of traditional British pub grub, or an eager participant of our quiz nights, or for that matter, the sportsmanship qualities of a game of five-day cricket matches."
Sinclair winces. "Five-day matches? My grandfather, if I recollect, would faithfully attend them at Lords. Me personally? I’m all for the Twenty20 format of the game."
"Cheap entertainment." I wave my hand in the air. "Five-day matches are the true test of an athlete’s mettle."
"Or patience," Sinclair coughs.
"Hold on, you mean to say there are cricket matches that go on for five days?" Michael looks at me like I said I cut my pasta with a knife.
"A true gentleman’s game." I smirk.
"You’re talking to someone for whom football is as sacred as the Santa Maria herself. I am, after all, Italian—"
"But with American sensibilities," I remind him.
"I attended university in the US." Michael raises a shoulder. "But I’m not here to talk about myself or the Brits’ strange taste in sports, am I?" He glances between us.
Sinclair swirls the whiskey in his tumbler. "While I’m with you on the footy, I take umbrage at your questioning our tastes—"
"Or lack thereof," Michael mutters.
"Heard you, ol’ chap," Sinclair drawls.
"Wasn’t trying to hide my words,ol’ chap." Michael’s lips curl.
"Children, children." I lean forward. "As Michael alluded to, we’re here not to insult each other’s cultures. Personally, I have no issue with it, but could you do that on your own time? The quicker we can find a middle ground here, the quicker I can leave."
"Getting late for you, old man?" Sinclair makes a show of glancing at his watch. "Time for yourHorlicksand silk slippers in front of the fire?"
"Horlicks?" I stare.
