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He braced his ass against the portal. “We need to talk.”
“No.” Another adamant talk-to-the-hand. “You need to leave, and I need to pee.”
He gestured at the stalls with a King Arthur sweep. “Have at it.”
My bladder screamed too loud for an argument. Off to the races I went.
As I took care of business, his determined steps battled each other for echo factor. Once he confirmed we were alone, he did the butt brace thing on the lip of the vanity counter, or so I guessed from the vicinity of his sigh. “So…”
“So…what?” I countered while flushing. Getting scooched all the way back into my jumper wasn’t such a slam dunk. By the time I was done, my bra strap was twisted four times over and my panties were crunched to the left of my cooch, but I was beyond caring. The better part of Gervase Special Numero Dos was still waiting for me out on the bar.
“So you’re ready to rock this thing in Arcadia, right?”
Breath of weird relief. So this was what the looks were about.
Wait a second.
Thiswas what the looks were about?
I stomped out of the stall on the heels of that thought, letting him see my full glare because of it. “Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Ezra plowed a hand through his hair. The move lent him more of the King Arthur vibe—though it was more the stressed-post-wars guy, not the congenial-spot-in-Camelot one. “Do you really not get it by now? Oygevalt, Luce. I’ve got more confidence in you than me right now.”
“Only because you let your passport lapse.”
“That has nothing to do with it, and you know it.”
Wry side-eye. “That so?”
“You think I’m making this shit up?” He scowled. “You schmooze with these royals like you belong with them, darling. We both said as much after the video conference call.”
“Guess all those princess movies as a kid did stick.”
“Whatever it was, I’m grateful.” He followed my path over to the sink. “You’re our best chance of landing this, Luce.”
“Okay, okay.” I chuckled. “Chill, sparky.”
“Yeah.” He whooshed out a breath. “Chill. Good suggestion.”
“So what’s the problem?” I examined myself while washing my hands. Noticed, with tequila-induced clarity, that my brows needed plucking, my chestnut asymmetrical bob was split end city, and the acne cream fairy seriously needed to visit my pimply princess forehead. Lovely. Twenty-four years old, and I still had to check for acne.
Stress for another time—especially because deciphering Ez consumed a lot of brain space right now. I stared at him as he stared at his fingers, now drumming incessantly on the counter, with abnormal focus.
Finally, he mumbled, “There’s no problem…”
“Which was why you locked me in here then straight-up jabbed if I was ‘ready’ to rock—” Hard jolt. Straight to the chest. Sudden, horrid understanding. “Shit. What the hell, Ez?”
His jaw visibly clenched. “What the hell what?”
“You’re…scared.” I tossed the hand towel into the bin, using the move to face off to him. “Why are you scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Nah. Nope. No more flying there, Superman. Out with it.” I wiggled my fingers inward. “The Kryptonite. Out with it. Now.”
He glared—well, tried—one last time, before pacing back toward the door, fingers now laced behind his head.
Like a prisoner ready to confess.
