I ignored Phoenix, like I always did, and stood to face Trace. It wasn’t until I was standing and holding my arms out that I paused and had a “What the hell am I doing moment?” But my arms, they were out there flapping, damn-near making me look like a chicken. If she didn’t return my hug, I was pretty sure Tex would piss his pants from laughter, and Nixon would think he’d won. Not that it was a competition.
At least not yet.
Trace bit her lip, causing lust to surge through my body, then stepped into my arms and pressed her head against my chest.
Heaven. I was in absolute heaven.
Meaning, Nixon was probably in hell. Take that, bastard. Maybe next time he’d be more welcoming — or maybe next time I’d still try to be first and beat him to the punch.
Trace pulled back, her deep brown eyes searching mine.
I opened my mouth to say something, but words died in my throat when her warm lips pressed against my cheek. Holy. Mother.
“Thanks for the boots.”
“Sweet. Imagine what she’d do if you bought her a car.” This from Phoenix. The sound of silverware getting thrown was the soundtrack to our epic moment. Awesome.
I forced a smile even though it was apparent I was going to most likely get forked in the ass if I kept it up. “I’m sorry about—”
She lifted her hand in a noncommittal wave. “I’ve got boots. We’re even.”
Hardly. But I wasn’t going to argue with her in front of everyone — in front of Nixon. Instead, I inclined my head and escorted her to her seat, like I was starring in some freaking Pride and Prejudice movie. I suppressed a groan when her fingertips brushed against my leg, and nearly collided with my own chair in an effort to keep myself from getting too overly excited.
“So, a restaurant? At a school? Really?” Trace directed her question to Mo, her eyes barely flickering to Nixon and back. It wouldn’t have been noticeable, but apparently I was a stalker now, because I noticed. I noticed every damn movement of those long eyelashes.
“Nobody really knows about it,” Mo said carefully. Her answer strategic, just like she’d been taught.
“We like our privacy,” Nixon interrupted and snapped his fingers.
Our waiter appeared and leaned down, iPad in hand.
Nixon fired off his order in French.
Had I been free to groan out loud and gag, I would have. We only did that to impress the new students who we wanted to control and intimidate: order in different languages, confuse them, make them feel weak, vulnerable, stupid.
The rule of thumb was whatever Nixon, the boss, did, we had to follow. His plan was to go with the whole foreign thing? We obeyed. So the rest of us naturally ordered in French, leaving poor Trace staring gape-mouthed at everyone, as well as at the menu.
Way to go, Nixon. You’ve succeeded in shocking the hell out of her and making her feel about as dumb as a bag of rocks. Why was it necessary?
Trace whimpered a bit, her eyebrows furrowing.
Enough. I whispered to Mo in French, this time purposefully so Trace couldn’t understand. Roughly translated, I also added, “Your jackass of a brother is trying to intimidate your new friend. Order her something that tastes good, and be sure to make it hot so that every time she blows across her food, it makes Nixon so painfully aroused he has to excuse himself. Homeboy’s pissing me off.”
Mo smiled warmly back at me, laughing, then ordered for Trace.
“French?” Trace’s voice came out as a squeak. “How many languages do you guys speak?”
“Three.” Tex held his water in salute. I about burst out laughing. Tex spoke way more than three, but that was his game, not to act too smart or people would ask questions.
“Two.” Phoenix shrugged. Another lie. He spoke five. But whatever.
“Five.” I sighed, jumping on the lie train, balls to the wall. I spoke six, so it really wasn’t that much of a difference, and counting the language of love seemed cocky, albeit true.
Nixon cleared his throat.
“Tell her, man.” I nudged him, curious to see if he would actually fess up or say something lame like, “‘One, English, and as you can see, I suck at that too, but I can count to ten. So yeah, there’s that.”‘
Nixon cursed me in two different languages before mumbling the number “Ten” under his breath. I damn-near clapped. Look who wasn’t a liar pants. The most dishonest out of all of us. Well done. Well bloody done. See, apparently I spoke British slang too — I’m freaking amazing.
“Ten?” Trace exclaimed, clearly impressed. “I can barely speak English.”
“We know.” Phoenix laughed.
Trace shot him a glare and threw her fork in his direction.