Tell Me It's Real(60)

Santiago looked startled, as if he was only then aware of my presence at the table. When he saw me, a grimace came over his face like he smelled something awful. But then he twisted his lips into what I’m sure he thought was a professional smile, but was absolutely sardonic. “Of course, sir,” he said politely. “I shall get you some bread and butter. Lots and lots and lots of butter.” He turned back to Vince and the smile turned dazzling again. “And you, sir? I can get you anything you want while you wait for your”—he glanced back at me—“father’s bread.”

“Father?” I repeated, outraged.

Vince didn’t get the dig. “That’s not my father,” he said to Santiago. “That’s Paul.”

“Oh!” Santiago said, as if that explained everything. “So he’s your accountant or something?”

Vince’s brow furrowed. “He’s not an accountant. We work together.”

Relief spread over Santiago’s face. “Do you?” he asked, his voice again a purr. “Well, that certainly is good news. I’ll be right back with your coworker’s loaf of bread that he really seems to want, and then maybe you and I can get to know each other a bit better.” He winked and walked away, his hips doing enough of a roll to put Helena Handbasket to shame.

“Wow,” Vince said. “He sure seemed interested in you. I wonder if I should be jealous at all.” He looked at me with a pretty smile.

“I don’t think it was me,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “In case you didn’t notice, he was practically fucking you right in front of me.”

Vince laughed. “What? You’re so full of shit. He was just being nice.”

“He was rubbing all over you!”

Vince shrugged. “I didn’t even notice. I was too busy watching you.”

My eyes bulged. “What… you can’t say shit… like that… so unfair… I don’t even….”

“You’re so cute when you sputter, you know that?” Vince said, reaching over to take my hand on top of the table. I thought about pulling it away, but his hand was warm and it seemed awfully rude to not allow him the comfort of my touch.

Santiago chose this moment to walk back to the table, and I knew the moment he saw our hands joined because he almost tripped and fell right into Vince’s lap. Vince didn’t even look up at him; he sat there, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. Santiago scowled at him, then looked at me with a dark smirk. “What happened to your face?” he asked me. “You look like you got punched in the eye.”

I blushed and mumbled something incoherent, looking down at our joined hands.

Vince took that as his cue. “Me and Paul are into some pretty kinky shit,” he told Santiago, whispering loudly. “You should see the bite marks on my ass. Nobody gives it to me like my boyfriend.”

I don’t know who was more shocked at Vince’s pronouncement, me or Santiago. While Santiago was probably more focused on the kinky-sex aspect of it, all I could hear in my head was the word boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend over and over again. I tightened my grip on Vince’s hand and I’m pretty sure I almost broke three of his fingers by the slight wince he gave.

“Boyfriend?” Santiago asked in a low voice, sounding incredulous.

“Boyfriend?” I asked, high-pitched and slightly hysterical.

Vince shrugged and smiled at me.

I didn’t even notice Santiago leaving because I was staring at Vince like he’d made the most insane statement in the history of the English language, which, to be fair, he pretty much had. Granted, I did maybe spend a second or two at the thought of putting bite marks on his ass (I mean, come on; who wouldn’t?) but I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the word boyfriend. As sad as it might seem, I couldn’t think of a time when anyone had actually called me that before, nor did I think there was anyone I had thought of that way. The last guy I’d dated (the psychic psycho, for those keeping track) turned out to be batshit crazy. I didn’t do the boyfriend thing. I was fucking Paul Auster. It didn’t happen to me.

But Vince continued to smile at me and he continued to hold my hand. He looked like he was going to say something further, but he stopped himself. He was obviously waiting for me to say something, anything, but since it was me, I let the silence drag on, making things even more awkward than they were before. Finally, I said the only thing I could think of.

“You’re really not Freddie Prinze Junioring me?” I asked faintly.

“Only if you want me to,” he said with a wink. I still didn’t think he understood the concept of being Freddie Prinze Juniored. He made it into something dirty and that was not helping the situation in the slightest.