Author: Guede Mazaka
Galahad had his head between his hands and was slumped so far down that he was in danger of sniffing up his rice. He’d given up on even trying to take part in the conversation about fifteen minutes ago, and while Gawain normally would totally call Galahad on it, he was going to let it pass. Actually he was going to sympathize while cradling his own migraine.
Mariette had relaxed, but in a bad way. She was pouting enough for someone to balance a shotglass on her lower lip. “But it’s not legal!”
Tristan shrugged and ate more of his quesadilla. “It was when I was in France.”
“Oh. But never mind, there is still the moral quality of the act to consider—”
“Morality?” The way Tristan’s eyebrow was arched had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with baiting. He got amused by people’s stupidities and fluster-attacks, but Gawain had never seen him…savor it like this. Not even in the early days with Galahad. “Marseilles.”
Either Mariette was going to die right there, or she was going to launch herself across the table at him with her butter knife. She was the same deep red with both interpretations. “That is unfair. There were…there were circumstances. The Poulain business was an accident. Besides—what about you and that park in the fifth arrondissement? The swans?”
Tristan actually flinched. After an initial hitch, he flowed with it and rocked right back, ready to counterattack. And Gawain put his head down and groaned. Good God. If they got out of this date with his sanity intact, he was going to make Tristan make it up to him for the next month.
“‘I haven’t hung out with you in a while,’ you said. ‘It’ll be a good way for everyone to cut loose without hangovers,’ you said. Jesus fucking Christ. Real great idea, ‘wain,” Galahad muttered.
“Shut up and get a waiter,” Gawain said. “I’ll grab the coats.”