“How could you be having dinner at the Flying Fish with Rick Ronconi?” Her voice had finally started to increase in volume.
“He asked me.”
“When?” Now her eyes bugged, and she stared at him like he was crazy.
“Uh, last night after I left the salon. He waited for me on the street.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s only trying to apologize for being rude. I’ve got to go, or I’ll be rude. See you tomorrow. Kiss. Kiss.” He took off out the door and was probably in his hybrid Lexus before she’d blinked.
Rick sat on the wall by the walkway in front of the restaurant and stared at the parking lot. He was getting a few stares of his own, sadly proving his sister’s hypothesis that everyone at her wedding would be distracted by her hairy brother and forget to look at the bride. Arriving early hadn’t helped, but they’d finished up right after three at Theodore and Snake’s place and he’d had too much time to kill before six thirty. Sitting around his place thinking about what an idiot he’d been to invite Jimothy to dinner didn’t appeal, so he’d come to Newport Beach, put their name in for six thirty, and then sat around in front of the Flying Fish—thinking about what an idiot he’d been to invite Jimothy to dinner.
Still, he’d be nice, buy the guy a meal, and then put the whole business in the rearview mirror. Theodore would quit staring at Rick as if he’d killed his puppy. Rick hadn’t made it to the barber shop yet, but he’d do that the next day, and then Alice would be happy too. Maybe they’d all get the fuck off his back.
The precise click of heels on the concrete made him look up. Sure enough, Jimothy was coming down the sidewalk, moving fast. Funny. Maybe thirty people had walked past him since Rick had sat there a half hour before. Wonder how I knew Jimothy? Something about the walk. The guys on his crew probably would have called it swishy, but Rick mostly thought graceful, like a dancer or something, legs closer together than most men, one foot crossing over in front of the other instead of striding straight ahead like some lumbering bear.
The strange thing was the way he was dressed. No pink pants or skintight silver shirts. He wore plain dark-blue jeans, a white shirt, and a lighter blue leather jacket. That jacket probably cost more than Rick’s truck, but for Jimothy, it seemed conservative. Maybe this is the way he dresses when he’s not in his salon? Weirdly, that was a little disappointing. Of course, his hair is the color of a prom corsage. And even dressed like he was, Jimothy looked way better than Rick did in his baggy jeans and the sweater that he’d gotten at Costco that was a fancy name for a sweatshirt.
Jimothy hadn’t seen him. He was focused on the front door, and in fact, he was late, but only by about four minutes.
Rick slid off the wall. “Jimothy.”
Jimothy looked around. When his gaze connected with Rick’s, for a second, he smiled brightly, but then it faded to something more—what? Suspicious? Guarded? “Hello. I hope I’m not late.”
“Nope.” Rick walked to where Jimothy stood. “I put our name in. We should be good.” Then he wasn’t sure what to do. If Jimothy was a woman, he might have offered his arm or put a hand on her back. As it was—hell, what would he do if this was Fred or one of the other guys? “This way.” He struck out toward the entrance and hoped Jimothy would follow.
When he got to the door, he did hold it open, but he figured he’d do that for any friend. Jimothy gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”
Inside, the waiting area was way more crowded than it had been when he put their name in, partly because the big bar at the front of the place was doing a booming business. Rick walked up to the hostess. “Hi. I’m Ronconi, for two.”
She looked up, gave him the same startled glance she’d given him a half hour before, and then smiled real phony and said, “Yes, Mr. Ronconi, your table is ready. Cheryl.” She handed two menus to a waitress, who flashed teeth and chirped, “Watch your step.”
Rick started to go first, but then stopped and let Jimothy step in front. Maybe that was to be polite, but sadly, it might have had something to do with wanting to watch Jimothy’s cute ass as he walked. Clearly being around Jimothy Castlemane wasn’t going to get Rick over his secret passion, but maybe he should think of it as sensitivity training. Like a friend of his who was scared of elevators and his therapist made him get on elevators and practice not freaking out. Of course, Rick wasn’t exactly scared of Jimothy’s ass.
The waitress, Cheryl, gave them a nice booth that was set up to let people sit perpendicular to each other instead of across. It was nice, but awfully close. The waitress handed them each a menu, then said, “Do you know what you’d like to drink?”
Rick said, “What’s your pleasure?”
“Extra dry vermouth, straight up, please.” Jimothy blinked his lashes one or two more times than Rick would have.
What the hell was dry vermouth? “Uh, whatever you’ve got on tap.”
“I’ll be right back with those. We have an excellent choice of hors d’oeuvres. Take a look and I’ll get your order shortly.”
Rick grabbed the menu like a lifeline. “Any hors d’oeuvres you like?”
Jimothy smiled kind of shyly. “I love the artichoke.”
“Okay, yeah.” On the few occasions he came to this high-priced place, he never got that because he wasn’t sure how to eat it and not look stupid. “Should we get two—”
“Oh no. I don’t eat that much. We can share.”
Sharing. At least he’d have somebody to watch.
Cheryl walked back with Rick’s beer and a highball glass with a few inches of pale amber liquid. Beside it, was a glass full of ice. She said, “In case, you’d like to add rocks.”
“Thank you.”
She beamed. Jimothy had such a sweet way about him that something as simple as a thank-you came off sounding special.
Rick said, “We’d like an artichoke.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll have that right out for you. Enjoy.” She headed for the kitchen.
Jimothy lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
“Uh, yeah.” Rick clinked his glass against Jimothy’s and then drank. Jimothy sipped, and Rick stared at the plain liquid that looked like wine but wasn’t in a wineglass. “What’s that stuff like?”
“Oh, you’ve never tasted it? Here.” Jimothy held out his glass. “You know that vermouth’s used in martinis, right? But if it’s high quality, it’s excellent for sipping.” He jiggled the glass. “Try it. It won’t bite.”
Funny. He might be fantasizing about sucking Jimothy’s cock, but the idea of putting his mouth on a glass Jimothy had drunk from was overwhelming. Still, he took the glass and grabbed a quick sip, trying not to think about where his lips were hanging out.
“Oh, that’s kind of good.”
“See. Keep it. I’ll get another one.” Like a cool dude, he lifted a finger, and when the waitress looked up, he pointed at his drink, extended one digit, and then flashed that gorgeous smile. Cheryl smiled back, and it only took her moments to have another drink for him.
She grinned as she put the glass on the table. “Made a convert, huh? Enjoy. I’ll have your artichoke right away.”