Page 82 of Branded
Monica, who was pregnant, and would soon be having a vomiting, drooling baby making a mess of all her designer digs.
That sniff, at someone I respected (Hazel was awesome and kind), had been the first strike.
The second had come after Beth had shown up, joining me, Pru, and Monica who had been waiting for her outside CeCe’s (her flight had been late), when we’d walked into the bar.
Another sniff. A disgusted expression.
Daintily hefting her skinny ass onto the stool like it was climbing fucking Mount Everest, and then she’d touched the table—a worn and scuffed blond wood top—and made another face.
I’d caught Hazel’s eyes then.
The psychologist’s shoulders had risen and fallen on a sigh, but her expression had been bland, and she’d seemed determined that we would all have a good time, taking over the conversation and turning Monica’s focus to what she clearly wanted to talk about.
Monica.
Pru had muttered something under her breath.
Beth’s brows had dragged together.
But we joined in, and after a few minutes, the tension broke, and Monica, though centering the conversation constantly around herself, at least engaged with us, and it was with significantly less sniffing.
Though, there was snark (and a bit of sniffing when it came to ordering).
And snark about the paper napkins.
And snark about Julie, who the girls knew well and had served me and Smitty the other time I had been here. Julie, who was really nice and competent at her job, and definitely didn’t deserve being sniffed at in disdain just because she’d asked Monica if she was sure that she only wanted a side salad for her entire meal.
Especially considering Monica had started off by declaring she was pregnant and the rest of us had ordered enough food to feed an army.
All of that could be forgiven.
Monica was a lot, but maybe she was just nervous and said the wrong thing (unlike me whose nerves meant I struggled to say anything).
But this?
Stopping me from eating one of the best things on the planet—fried cheese—and I was ready to snap, understanding be damned.
Hazel pushed the basket a little closer and smiled at me, before flicking her gaze to Monica’s and saying nicely, but firmly, “It’s Cheese Night Extravaganza.” She helped herself to a cheese stick. “You can have the salad you ordered, or any”—she swept a hand toward the copious baskets in front of us—“of this.”
A protest welled in my throat because by this point in the evening I was feeling very possessive of my cheese, and Hazel offering it up to someone who might not appreciate it, seemed very sacrilegious.
But I bit my tongue.
Because God knew I didn’t need to create drama for Raph, especially since he was going to marry this chick.
The irony didn’t miss me either.
That I normally was desperate to talk, but that evening was struggling not to.
Smitty would get a kick out of that, and I couldn’t wait to text him about this wild dinner, and how I’d suddenly become another person who kinda, sorta (okay, there was no kinda, sorta about it) wanted to dump a beer in Monica’s lap, just to see how she’d react if her designer duds got ruined.
But drama.
I’d been around enough of it of my father’s creation to want to avoid the entire process.
So, I just ate my cheese stick, soaked in the gloriousness of fried cheese, and when the guys’ game came on TV, I devoted most of my attention to that.
I did manage to summon up a smile for Monica when she’d had enough of the attention being off her and onto the game and our respective men and prospects (Pru had two of the players she’d scouted playing that night and wanted to watch how they were doing, for obvious reasons, and Hazel always liked to watch how the guys were doing so that she could assess and help any who were struggling) and decided to leave.
