“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.
“So,” Flint says, looking back and forth between Thomas and me again. “What have you two got going on here?”
“Well, Laurel and I were having a wonderful time catching up,” Thomas says, winking at me. “But it got even better now that the gang’s all here.” He looks at Flint again, but Flint’s glowering at a cup of coffee.
“Wonderful time, huh? Sounds…wonderful.” Man, someone brought their A level brooding game. I don’t know if there’s any way to make him truly happy without Charlotte here to perk him up. That thought makes my stomach lurch.
“What about Callie?” I try to get the topic to someplace where Thomas and I don’t spend the whole meal making googly eyes at Flint while he hates on his French press. “She just showed up?”
“Out of nowhere.” He sighs, runs his hand through his (perfect, shining) hair. “I’m getting ready to fly back there and kick David’s ass for him.”
“He’s not doing anything terrible, right? Cheating, boozing?” Thomas asks, chin in hand. Flint snorts.
“If he were doing that, I wouldn’t be sitting here considering going to get him. No, he’s a decent guy.” Flint sighs. “But he’s not there as much as Callie needs him to be. I think they’re both too burned out, what with the twins and Callie staying at home and the mortgage. I wish there were something I could do to help them.” He grunts and shoves the coffee away. Bad, bad cup, offending him so. “But I can’t think of anything.”
Damn. Poor Callie. I hate seeing her like this, frazzled and despairing, boozing on an empty stomach on a Sunday while her children sit by and watch. I feel like I owe her something, dammit. Whatever problems and awkwardness Flint and I have had, this show and my career wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for her. I want to help her. But how?
And then I become brilliant.
“Hold on,” I say, feeling my brain light up, all sparkly and what not. “Maybe there’s something we can do. Thomas and me.” I grin at my very stylish friend. “Can you think of anything that screams romance?”
“With the inspiration at this table, how could I not?” He puts on his best ‘straight guy’ impression, adopting an impossibly deep voice. He winks at me again, wiggling his eyebrows at Flint, who doesn’t seem to notice. He’s scowling even deeper now. “Oh! I have it!” Thomas cries, reaching over and grabbing my arm. “Call me insane and wonderful, but what about this: the Peninsula, the Mandarin Garden suite, with a bucket of iced champagne and room service?”
“If you wanted to sweep me off my feet, you could have just said so,” I say, fake flirting and batting my eyelashes. We grab each other’s hands and laugh. Flint clears his throat. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, and is going all alpha male grumpy bear on the table. Even Thomas notices, fake-tugging at his collar in concern.
“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea?” I ask him. Honestly, you’d think we just suggested hogtying Callie and David together and throwing them off a cliff.
“The Peninsula is hard to get into?” he asks, looking at Thomas.
“Well, of course,” Thomas says. “You can’t just waltz in there, especially not if you’re trying to book a stay in the Mandarin Garden. That baby has a sauna, a hot tub, a staff of full-time massage therapists, and the toothpaste is made out of gold dust.”
“Then you probably can’t get them in,” Flint says, challenging.
“Au contraire, mon frenemy,” Thomas says, noting the cool way Flint is looking at him with amusement. “I work for only the ritziest people in the ritziest part of town. Getting two burned-out parents into the hottest resort hotel for a long weekend?” He snaps his fingers with a flourish. “Done.”
“What about the kids?” Flint mutters. “They going, too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We can babysit them.”