“Hey,” a deep voice hums in my ear. A warm hand touches me lightly on the arm. “Did you get turned around? We’re over here, remember?”
I look at the guy standing beside me talking to me like he knows me, and I’m surprised to find it’s not Ben. He’s taller than I am by a few inches, probably about six foot two with heavy, broad shoulders, startling blue eyes, and close-cropped brown hair. The haircut has me pegging him for military immediately and the American accent and perfect English says U.S. military for sure. Put a football in his hands and he’s a thick slice of American pie that already has my mouth watering.
“Hey,” I respond, trying not to sound as unsure as I am. I hope he’s trying to save me from the Armani Mafia, but I’m worried he’s just mistaken me for someone he knows.
“Come on, I’ve got your beer waiting at the table.”
I nod, giving him a small smile. “Thanks.”
My new best friend (brot will need to step up its game to compete with this guy’s eyes if it wants the title back) puts his hand out toward the Italian still standing. “Thanks for steppin’ up to help her out, man.”
Italy’s smile loses some of its luster, but the guy doesn’t hesitate to take American Pie’s hand. “It is no problem. I am happy she find you.”
They shake hands quickly, then American Pie puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me down the row of tables.
“Thanks,” I mumble to him. “That was nice of you.”
He shrugs. “You looked uncomfortable and there’s a language barrier. That could have gone on for a while. I thought you might want an easy out.”
I nod as I smile at him. “I did, yeah. Thanks again.”
I give him a small wave and start walking faster, outstepping him.
“Hey, wait.”
I turn to face him and part of me olts. Lord, his eyes are blue. That color should be illegal. “Yeah?”
“Was he right? You’re separated from your friends?”
“Yeah, we got separated about an hour ago. This was the next place we were going so I thought I’d find them here, but I don’t see them.”
“So what are you going to do? Do you have a meeting place set up?”
I shake my head, feeling dumb that in a crowded situation like this we don’t have that kind of a plan. I didn’t even think of it before but it sure as hell makes sense now.
“Why don’t you come sit with us?” he suggests, gesturing to a table farther down the aisle.
I glance to where he’s pointing and see three other guys with military haircuts sitting at a table and watching us. It’s another pack of similar-looking guys, not too unlike the Italians I just escaped from, but they’re American boys. I can handle American boys. There’s no language or social barriers to be confused by. This is the devil I know.
“It’s probably better to stay in one place,” he says, seeing me waver undecidedly. “Especially somewhere that you all planned on going eventually.”
“What if they do the same thing? Sit down, have a beer, and wait for me to show?”
He grins, his lips pulling up higher on one side than the other. It’s crooked and adorable. “Then you don’t find each other, but at least you’re not alone.”
I glance at his friends and mistakenly take another look at him. The guy is handsome in a comfortable kind of way. Like your older brother’s best friend; he’s been around forever but one day his good looks and sweet nature sneak up on you and BAM!, you’re a goner. Plus, the military thing does it for me and I find myself nodding in agreement and following him to his table.
“This is Haskins, Sanchez, and Birchart,” American Pie tells me, pointing to each of his boys. Sanchez is the whitest white boy I’ve ever seen and I wonder if there’s a joke there I’m not getting. “Guys, this is—I don’t know your name.”
“Wren,” I supply.
“Rent?” Birchart, a stocky guy with the greatest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, asks.
“No, Wren. Like the bird.”
“That’s different,” American Pie says.
I shrug. “My mom likes birds. I have a sister named Robin and we have a dog named Sparrow.”
“Themed names kill me,” Sanchez groans. He looks at me apologetically. “No offense.”
“None taken. Try having one. Trust me, it doesn’t make you love it more.”
“So, Wren,” American Pie says, touching my arm again, “I was headed to get a drink before swooping in and saving the day. You want one?”
I look around at what everyone is drinking and shake my head. “Everything is in cups. I’ll just go with you and get one myself.”
When I look at him I realize I basically just told him I’m afraid he’s going to roofie me, which I am, but I shouldn’t have said it. Not out loud. Luckily he doesn’t look offended. He just smirks at me.
“That was the idea. You coming with me.”
“Sorry, yeah, it’s not that I don’t—” But it is: I don’t trust him. I don’t know him. I don’t even know his name.