Page 31 of Gin and Lava

“It’soneorder of French toast,” I defend. “And for the record, I’m over Sam.”

“Good,” she says kindly. “About Sam, I mean. Order as many stacks of French toast as you desire.”

“I will.”

I stuff a giant bite of toast in my mouth, and Esme laughs.

“Alas, your lady-like charm is unparalleled, my dear,” Esme quips, before going on to quote the Dowager Duchess fromDownton Abbeylike I’m a heathen, causing us both to bust up laughing.

When our giggles calm down, Esme takes a sip of her mimosa and eyes me carefully. “Speaking of being over Sam and embracing the single life, was that Mason I saw you leave the wedding with last night?”

Her tone is part playful and part concerned. He is Mason after all, the penis-shirt-wearing Prince of Potty-Mouth Incorporated.

“Oh, right,” I say quickly, grabbing my mimosa to buy me time. “Mason was drunk. He needed a ride home.”

“Was he?”

“Did you expect anything less from Mason?”

“No, I’m certain he was drunk,” Esme clarifies, looking at me and waiting for more details. Only, I don’t budge. “You know, he was in the wedding party,” she continues in a tone that’s not going to let this slide. “He could’ve crashed at the hotel.”

“Sure,” I shrug. “Except, he didn’t know which room the bride and groom were using—Ned’s room or Olivia’s room. No one wants to crash the couple onwedding night!”

“AnyoneexceptMason,” Esme retorts, looking at me like I’m crazy. “You know who you’re talking about, right? If anyone is going to joke about having a threesome on wedding night with the bride and groom, it’s Mason.”

“Joke, yes,” I agree. “But, actually do it? No.”

Esme looks at me inquisitively. “Wereyoudrunk last night?”

“I couldn’t drive him home if I was drunk, could I?” I point out, picking up my silverware and starting to cut my French toast.

I don’t know why I feel so defensive about this, except for the fact that, well—it’s Mason. And telling anyone about sleeping with him is going to gain me the judgmental did-you-do-mushrooms-and-lose-a-bet look of suspicion. Not that I’m ashamed of it. I just don’t want to have to defend it.

“So, you’re telling me,” Esme continues, watching my body language like a hawk, “that completely sober, youvolunteeredto take a drunk Mason back to his place after the wedding?”

“Yes.” I nod. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Esme gives me a frown.

“What?” I deflect, shoving a piece of French toast in my mouth. “Why are you looking at me like that’s suspicious?”

“Because she’s implying you slept with him,” says a male voice from over my shoulder. I turn to see Desmond joining us, looking movie-star perfect in jeans and a t-shirt like gods are meant to walk among us in casual wear.

“And good morning to you too, Desmond,” I say with a grumble, wiping my syrup covered lips and not addressing his comment. He scoots into the booth next to Esme and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

“And this look right here,” Desmond says, cupping Esme’s face and turning it to me. “This is the look of horror from knowing youweren’tdrunk when you slept with him.”

Yup. That’s the bit I was hoping to avoid.

“Why would that be horrifying?” I ask, too defensively.

“Wait!” Esme points an accusatory finger at me. “So youdidsleep with him?”

I look at Esme and Desmond and shake my head. They’re basically theitcouple of the year, which means I’m not telling Mr. and Mrs. Perfect anything.

“A girl doesn’t kiss and tell,” I say, looking at my food and acting disinterested in this conversation.

“Holy shit!” Esme exclaims. “You totally did!

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