Rugged(78)

Flint walks over to our table. Thomas is as stunned as I am, though I think he’s just appreciative of the view. “Who is this slice of heaven?” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

“Laurel,” Flint says, smiling down at me. His eyes are wide with amazement. “I can’t believe it.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, mouth agape. Flint looks from Thomas to me. His smile vanishes, replaced by the slightest frown. “We’re not on Gossip Talk until tomorrow morning.” I am not looking forward to that radio interview. The amount of dirt those hosts can find on a person is terrifying. Plus, they like playing barnyard animal sounds at distracting times.

“We were looking to grab some food,” he says, still glaring at Thomas, who doesn’t notice because he’s checking out Flint’s perfectly sculpted ass. “Suze recommended it. She didn’t mention you’d be here.”

But she knew we would be. Suze. My own fairy tale matchmaker. If I didn’t love her so much, I would end her.

Then I remember that Flint used the word we. Oh no. I brace myself, clutching the underside of the table, and wait for Charlotte to step outside and blight the soft golden California sunshine I was just enjoying so much.

A woman pushes a stroller out onto the patio, cursing as she nearly trips over the threshold. My breath leaves me in a fast rush. Callie! Flint goes at once to help her, but I’m already rushing over to crouch down and coo at the twins in their stroller. Lily starts to screech with glee a little bit, which gets some model-thin woman to furrow her Botox-ed forehead—as much as she can, at least—and glare. I can see the dismissive thought bubble over her head: breeders. I glare back. Liberally. Nobody gets to look at my adorable little terrors that way, at least not without my permission.

“Laurel!” Callie looks honestly happy to see me, which softens my total horror of the situation. I straighten up, and we hug. “Mind if we join you?” she asks, not waiting for a reply and quickly pulling up a chair, helping herself to the pitcher of mimosas. “I’m starving.” She takes a good hard chug from her glass. Her high volume enthusiasm, plus her sucking down champagne cocktails, is attracting some annoyed looks. Thomas appears bemused as Flint sits between the two of us.

“Nice to meet you,” he tells Flint, holding out his hand, his silver Rolex flashing in the sun. “Thomas Beaumont.”

“Flint McKay,” he says, that muscle in his jaw doing its unhappy-flex. Maybe he’s not a fan of white shirts. He’s certainly never had a problem with men like Thomas before.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask Callie. “The show premiere’s not for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, I just wanted to visit. It’s still so cold and gray in Massachusetts right now,” she says, browsing through the menu. Her chestnut hair is ruffled, like she hasn’t put a comb through it. “Wanted to see my little brother again before he becomes a world famous star.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Flint says, sounding irritated. Probably an argument they’ve had before.

“Where’s David?” I ask, stopping to look back for him. Callie’s husband is a nice guy, but kind of easy to get lost in a crowd.

“Oh, David doesn’t care if I travel across the country.” Callie’s smile is half grimace, half frown. I’m not entirely sure it’s a smile, actually. “He doesn’t care if I take the kids. Just so long as he gets to work on time and can turn on Fallout 4 in the evening, he’s happy. So I figured, hey, why not let him cook for himself for a little while and go live it up in the sunshine?”

At that moment, Callum and Lily start bawling in their stroller. I mean screaming, crying, pounding their little fists on the plastic tray, zero to sixty. A few of the customers make exasperated noises, and I kind of want to tell them to shut up and enjoy their organic kale lattes. Flint takes the children out one at a time, trying to soothe them, but it does not work. Their little faces go red; we are achieving DEFCON Toddler level four. One of the waiters comes over, wearing a sour expression.

“May I remind you, cherished guests, that this is a place designed for relaxation,” he says. Flint starts to stand, and the guy quails.

“She’s a mother of young children. She doesn’t get a lot of relaxing time either,” he snaps. Even while balancing two squalling babies, he’s intimidating.

“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing Flint’s arm and pulling him back to the table. The waiter hustles off.

“What kind of business lets the staff be rude to the customers for no damn reason?” he grunts.

“Deplorable,” Thomas sighs. He’s still checking out Flint’s ass.

Callie grunts, weary, and waves for Flint to hand her the kids.

“Actually, put them back in the stroller. It’s probably diaper time,” Callie says, putting down her empty glass.

“Uh, need any help in there?” I ask, watching with concern as she wheels the children around Flint’s chair. He’s not volunteering to help; in fact, he just keeps looking at Thomas. His focus is intense, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of the perfectly tanned stylist. Great, now is he going to fall in love with everyone who isn’t me?

“I was born prepared,” Callie grumbles, and pushes the stroller back through the melee of Sunday brunch. A bunch of diners glare at her as she runs over their Gucci bags and knocks into a trellis covered with ivy. The sound of the kids’ crying dies away.