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“Yeah, finished up late.”
When Waylon and I talked last night, they were just finishing up dinner and heading back to the studio to get a little more work in on their album. That was about four hours ago, give or take. I had just gotten upstairs after locking the bar up early for the night. Wednesdays are always pretty dead.
“What’re you eating?” I ask, doing the math in my head. If it’s a little after three a.m. here, it’s only a little after midnight in LA.
“Waffles.” He says it so grumpily, I have to stifle a laugh with my fist.
“Why do you sound pissed? Are they not good?” I ask, still smiling like an idiot. I’m sure if he was in the right state of mind he’d call me out for it.
“Theywere…”
I give a quick shake of my head, despite knowing he can’t see it. “Nope. Forget about that. Did you drown them in syrup?”
“Obviously.” He makes a sound of disgust. His voice is much steadier now as he says, “I think it’s in my hair. I may’ve dove for cover face-first into the plate.”
I roll my lips together. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Grinning, I shake my head, catching myself just before I remind him he can’t see me.
“This is so fucking embarrassing,” he grumbles, blowing out a breath, and I hear a shuffle. I picture him rubbing at his face, his eyes, like he usually does when coming out of a daze.
“Nah,” I say easily. “I’m sure I would’ve done something even more embarrassing had I been there, like shove you under a table or something. Maybe threw the syrup bottle at Butter Finger’s head.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. A heavy moment passes.
“Or maybe I would’ve shoved you,” he finally says.
“Maybe.” A beat. “But I’m quicker.”
He groans.
“Stronger.”
“Fuck.Off.”
I bite my lower lip, unable to contain my stupid ass grin.
“Shawn’s looking at me weird.”
Chuckling, I ask, “What kind of weird?”
“I don’t know, but it’s less weird than it was a moment ago. Now it’s more like he wants to take the spoon he’s holding, and scoop out my jugular.”
I hum. “Something about that sentence doesn’t sound right.”
“Whatever. What are you doing?” His voice still sounds a little reedy, but I don’t point it out.
Shaking my head, I say, “Sitting on my bed.”
“Shit, it’s like, what, the middle of the night over there?”
My mouth ticks up. “It’s okay.”
