Jameson chuckles and slaps Elliot on the back as he stands. “Good luck with that one. Christopher left his taste buds in Spain.”
Tristan stands too. “Thank fuck I’m not staying. I can’t handle that shit.” He pulls his jacket on. “What time we signing contracts tomorrow?”
“Nine,” Jameson replies.
“See you then.” I fake a smile. They amble off through the restaurant, and my eyes come back to Elliot. He’s now leaning on his hand, his finger steepled up along his temple, his gaze fixed firmly on me.
“Who is she?”
“Nobody,” I lie.
“Cut the shit. Who the fuck is she?”
“Just drop it.”
“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
I stay silent.
“Listen, dickhead . . . don’t lie to me. I know there is something going on with you, and I want to know what it is.”
“Four margaritas.” The waiter puts them down on the table in front of us.
“Thanks.” Elliot picks his up and takes a sip. He winces. “The first one is always so rough.” He licks the salt from his lips. “Christ almighty,” he mutters under his breath. “Tastes like fucking shit.”
I exhale heavily. “Her name is Hayden Whitmore.”
“Nice name.” He smirks as he takes another sip. “Sounds like a character from a Jane Austen book.”
I smirk and take a sip too. “She is.”
He watches me and waits for me to elaborate.
“Kind, loving, innocent, and . . .” I pause. “Different to the women I know. Curvy and sweet, intelligent and witty. She’s fucking perfect.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know.”
He frowns. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I literally don’t know.” I tip my head back and drain my margarita glass until it’s empty.
He takes another sip and holds his drink up and studies it. “It’s tasting better now. Those first few mouthfuls were . . .” He fakes a shiver.
“It is.”
“How do you know her?”
“She’s one of my roommates in the hostel. We’ve been traveling together for three months.”
He nods. “And how long have you been sleeping with her?” he asks.
“I haven’t slept with her.”
He screws his face up in confusion. “What?”
I shrug and drain my other glass. “I know.”
“So . . . let me get this straight. You haven’t even slept with this woman?”
I shake my head.
“So you’re not even with her?”
“Well . . . technically, no.”
“How is there a technically in that sentence?”
“Because I am with her. I spend every minute of every day with this girl and follow her around like a puppy, and she doesn’t sleep around and hasn’t been interested in me at all, and then we kissed and fooled around, and I freaked out and came home.”
He stares at me. “Define fool around.”
I puff air into my cheeks. “There was a head job involved.”