Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(63)

“You’re right, where are my manners? Good morning, Finnigan. How are you?”

Ansel chuckles next to me.

“I’m excellent, thank you. And how are you, Oliver?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” he says, nodding. “I did notice you didn’t come home last night. In fact, you haven’t been spending much time at home, at all lately. I was beginning to grow concerned. Young man, alone in a big, strange city, wandering the streets all night . . .”

“This sounds like a story I’d like to hear,” Ansel agrees, taking a sip of his coffee.

But Oliver isn’t done. “You’ve never really been a one-time-hookup kind of a guy, so I can’t help but wonder who you’re spending all your time with.”

“I was at Harlow’s,” I admit. “We’ve been, um . . . seeing each other.”

I’m saved from their interrogation when the waitress arrives with our breakfast. “Wow. This is certainly . . . manly.” I study the towering sandwich made of toast, bacon, and fried eggs with bright yellow yolk oozing out onto the plate.

“Would it be possible for me to get more of this,” Ansel asks her, holding up a small white bowl filled with some sort of brown sugar mix. “I have a . . .” He stops to tap a finger against his mouth, searching for the word. “A, um . . . comment ce dire? When you like sweet things?”

The waitress blinks at least three times, and even sways a little where she stands. I’m about to reach out and steady her when she finally shakes her head, eyes coming back into focus.

“A sweet tooth?” she asks.

“Yes! That’s it, a sweet tooth! And I would love more of this.”

Pink floods her cheeks and she nods, taking the bowl from him before wandering away from the table, in search of Ansel’s brown sugar.

“Jesus Christ, Ansel,” Oliver says.

“What?”

“I am totally telling Mia you did that,” I say.

Ansel dumps a bowl of blackberries into his oatmeal and looks up at each of us, blinking innocently. “Did what?”

“Why didn’t you just f*ck her on the table?” I ask. “It would have been only slightly more awkward for us.”

“She’s probably pregnant now.” Oliver points his knife in the direction of the kitchen. “Try explaining that to your wife.”

Laughing, I say, “I bet she brings him every goddamn bowl of brown sugar they have in the place.”

“You’re both very funny,” Ansel deadpans.

“How is Mia, anyway?” I ask.

Ansel looks up at me with the most goofy, dimpled smile I’ve ever seen. “Perfect.”

“Ugh,” Oliver says, setting his fork down. “Do not get him started. Lola says she’s had to start warning them before she comes over. Last time she could hear them all the way down Julianne’s driveway.”

Ansel only shrugs, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I am quite the vocal lover, and would never stifle the loud, satisfied cries of my wife during what is possibly the best sex anyone has ever had.” He leans in, looks us both in the eye in turn, and repeats, “Ever.”

Both Oliver and I burst out laughing when we realize that, at some point during this monologue, our waitress has materialized at the table and placed a giant bowl of brown sugar in front of Ansel.

I’m not sure how much she just heard, but judging by the blush creeping up her neck and flashing hotly across her face, I’m guessing it was enough.

“Merci,” Ansel says again, smiling widely.

The poor girl mumbles “You’re welcome,” before she turns and heads back to the kitchen.

“I hate you,” Oliver says.

“You wouldn’t hate anyone if you were getting a little yourself.”

“He’s got a point,” I agree.

Oliver takes a bite of his breakfast, shrugging.

“Come on. You’re a good-looking, successful guy,” Ansel says. “Why aren’t you seeing someone?”

“Are we really doing the Sex and the City thing right now? In case you haven’t noticed, Carrie, I just opened the store. When would I have the time to meet anyone?”

“Who’s Carrie?” I ask.

Ignoring me, Ansel says, “Are you kidding me? I’ve only been there a few times and it’s crawling with weird hot chicks.”

“Eh. I’m not really looking.”

Ansel narrows his eyes. “Not looking? That doesn’t make any sense. You have a penis.”

Oliver laughs. “I do.”

“You’ve never had a problem getting laid and yet I haven’t seen you with anyone but Lola since I got—” Ansel stops, his mouth forming the word for a few beats before he says, “Ohhhh. I get it.”

“ ‘Oh’?” I repeat, glancing between them. “Get what?”

“You like Lola.”

Oliver is already shaking his head. “No, no, I don’t. We’re just friends.”

“ ‘Friends,’ ” Ansel and I repeat in unison.

“Honestly. I like her. But not like her like her. She’s smart and fun to hang out with, that’s it.”

Jesus Christ, he is a terrible liar.