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“What can I say?” Martin spread his arms. “I’m a giver.”
“I seem to remember you were a taker, too,” Eric said.
Ugh, kill himnow.
It was quiet for a mortifying second. Then Martin threw his head back, laughing so hard he positively vibrated with it. Adrian joined a beat later, eyes crinkled into small, happy slits, and Eric caught himself staring at the line of Adrian’s throat.
He wrenched his gaze away and cracked a smile that might have erred on the sheepish side. “Sorry. I’ll be seeing myself out.”
“Oh, don’t youdare.” Martin grabbed Eric’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “There better be more where that came from.”
“Uh. I don’t think I can make any promises.”
“Try.”
“Sorry—performance anxiety.”
“Ah, yes,” Adrian threw in. “Me too, my first couple of times in front of a camera.”
“It didn’t show,” Eric told him because, yeah, his brain clearlyhated him. It didn’tshow. It didn’tshow.
Adrian grinned. “Well, I was nineteen. I could get a hard-on looking at a particularly attractive stapler—a bout of nerves wasn’t gonna stop me.”
“Can we talk about how a stapler is the first thing that came to your mind?” Martin asked.
“No,” Adrian told him.
“Butwhy?”
“Because I’m your boss, and you’ve got work to do.”
Martin heaved a dramatic sigh. “All work and no play makes Martin a dull boy.”
Eric shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to quoteThe Shiningwhile in a semi-remote mountain hotel with snow outside. Just saying.”
“Live a little,” Martin told him.
“Work a little,” Adrian told Martin.
It was easy to see how their playful back-and-forth dynamic had translated well on camera—and Ericneededto stop thinking about that if he wanted to retain his sanity in the coming weeks and months. Then again, songwriting had a long-standing history of incorporating a spark of madness. Not that Eric would mention himself in the same sentence as the likes of Robert Schumann, Nick Drake, or Amy Winehouse.
Fortunately, this was when the first guests wandered into the dining room, an elegant group of four seniors in blouses and long-sleeved shirts that contrasted with the couple right behind them, clad in functional sportswear and colourful trainers.‘Everyone’s welcome here,’Adrian had told Eric earlier.‘Hikers and people who enjoy the history of the place—we like it all, suit jacket and hoodie and everything in between. It’s come as you are.’
True to his word, he waved them all in with a nod and a smile before he glanced at Eric. “The group of four are Scots. They like antiques and old trains. Up for it?”
Eric assessed them with a quick look. “Seat them, explain the menu and ask about dislikes, pour a round of water?”
“You got it,” Adrian said, and the full force of Adrian’s smile didn’t render Eric even briefly dizzy. Nope.
“All right.” He smiled back. “I take the Scots, you take the couple?”
“And I’ll get the bar ready,” Martin added.
“Okay,” Adrian said. “Let’s move, guys.”
It had been, what, five years since Eric had last worked as a server? And it had been a student pub in London with sticky menus encased in plastic, big portions, and food that was either fried or came in a bun. This was different. But that’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? It was a temporary change, meant to get him out of London. If it got him out of his head too, that would be a bonus.
With that thought in mind, he set off to greet the group of four, slightly too aware of Adrian right next to him. Eric hoped that by the end of dinner, he would hardly even notice anymore.
