Page 43 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
“Oh, yes. There are more billionaires on this patio than waitstaff and minions.”
“Oh my.” He relaxed against me. “You’d think I’d want to stay awake for that, wouldn’t you?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Sadly,” he said with a yawn, “I won’t be able to, I don’t think. Those meatballs were so yummy. I don’t suppose you could get a recipe…”
I lit a cigarette when the others began the ritual of cigars. Epic had fallen deeply asleep by then, and the music was no longer live but piped in.
Clouds drifted across the starlit sky, and the sound of waves reached us like the low rumble of distant thunder.
Epic had turned toward me in his sleep. His breath teased the skin of my neck. Contentment swept over me like the cool ocean breeze. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want a party to end. But parties do that. They end. Weary stragglers had to head home.
I had some decisions to make with regard to Epic.
What did I want from him?
What did he want from me?
And if we took what we wanted now, what would it be like to walk away?
Chapter Eleven
Epic leaned heavily against my side while we walked back to our room. He was still a little drunk and a lot tired. He talked, making expansive gestures I’d come to recognize as pure Epic.
“That was exactly like the wedding scene inPretty Woman.” He indicated the party we’d left with a windmill of his arm. “I can’t wait to tell Bea all about it.”
“How was that likePretty Womanagain?”
“Well, there were all those rich people, and they all knew I was just a waiter, so they—”
“Because you declined to mention your master’s degree.”
“I know, right?” He stifled what I suspected was a drunken giggle. “To them I’m just a waiter named Epic at a bistro called Bistro. That’s hilarious, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure I get the joke.”
“I was like a spy.” He lifted his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
“I’m beginning to think you enjoy it when people underestimate you.”
“Hell yeah, I do,” he said. “I love it.”
“How come?” I thought maybe I understood. I didn’t mind being underestimated myself.
“Because you can do whatever you like when people expect nothing from you. My parents—” He bit his lip.
“Let me guess. It was difficult to live up to their expectations?”
He frowned. “Well, yeah. Okay. That’s true.”
“So a little preemptive exploding of expectation probably served you well.”
“Yeah. You got me.” He clasped my arm. “What about your family? What are they like?”
“Dad owns a kitsch little hardware store in Boulder. Mom teaches math. I have two brothers and a sister. Randy, Ransom, and Regan. Regan’s the baby.”
“All thoser’s. Wait. Were your parents pirates?” he snorted. “Sounds nice, though. Are you very close in age?”
