He still has his arm swung over one of mine, steadying me. He is young enough to know it, I think, maybe in his early thirties. I hope.
I try again, this time with wide eyes and raised, wagging brows. “Max, my man! I haven’t seen you since the day we went to the rooftop bar with—” I pause to emphasize the next word. “Angela! Angela, remember?”
He studies my face for a moment like he’s trying to decide if I’m crazy.
Sigh. Can anything go right?
Nameless finally steps out of the dark corner, his eyes scanning and then landing on me with an ugly grudge. “Dude. You wanna get your hands off my girl? Thanks for helping her up, I mean, but I’ll take it from here.”
Grumpyface nods slowly. “Angela. It’s her birthday, isn’t it? I’m glad I found you here; I was looking all over. We’re going to be late for her party.”
Nameless takes another step toward me—us.
I hold in a gasp.
His eyes trace from me to the unexpected dark knight who showed up right on time. His gaze cools. “Not nice, lady. First I’m hearing about this party. Tell him to split.”
Dark Knight gently pushes me behind him and steps forward, putting his wall of a body between us.
“Back up, dude,” the stranger spits, something feral in his voice. “We’ve all been friends for years. It’s my cousin’s birthday. Angela forgot about the big day, and we need to get going.”
“Gah, do you have to move in on other guys’ dates because you can’t get your own?” Nameless snorts, taking another step.
“No. I move in because you’re drunk as hell and leering like a snake. I can smell your whiskey stink from here. Leave, or I’ll escort you out.”
Holy crap.
My heart climbs into my throat, stunned and afraid that Grumpyface is willing to come to blows to protect me.
“What the fuck ever. You don’t scare me, dude, but you’re not worth the shit,” Nameless snaps, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “Who the hell spends a Friday night at a stuffy-ass museum, anyway?”
“People who don’t need a pint of hard liquor to get through the night,” Dark Knight growls back, his fist clenched into a club at his side.
Wow.
Wow.
Still cursing under his breath, the idiot starts dashing for the door.
“Wait!” I call out, safely tucked behind my knight.
Creepo looks over his shoulder. “What do you want?”
“My phone. You can give it to my friend.” I keep my voice as nonconfrontational as possible.
“You took her phone, too?” The bullet-like accusation in Grumpman’s tone is clear.
And honestly, I feel crazy lucky that gruffness is on my side.
Nameless glares at me as he turns to hand over my phone. “She dropped it. I just picked it up.”
Right. And wouldn’t give it back.
My tall, dark, and handsome friend stands in front of me like a sentinel until Nameless is out the door at last.
With the threat gone, Dark Knight turns to face me, his eyes teal storm clouds in the dim orange light. “So are you really okay?”
I manage a split-second smile, dropping my phone into my purse so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
“It hurts to stand on my ankle, but I’ll survive. Thank you, thank you so much for your help. You have no idea what it means to—”
“You’ve been drinking, too, haven’t you?” he cuts in, cocking his head, assessing me with that razor-sharp gaze. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
“Please. I just had one glass of wine because that loser insisted on going to a bar before we got here—”
He rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath. “Sure.”
Okay. Woof. So maybe he’s a dud knight in expensive shining armor if he’s calling me a liar.
I shrug. “Look, I don’t care if you believe me. I’m here to celebrate my new dream job at Brandt Ideas and I’m not leaving until I’ve had a little fun. This is my favorite place in the world, and I’ll be damned if I let a twisted ankle or creepy date keep me from celebrating.”
Crankyface stiffens, his royal jaw turning up, regarding me with wide eyes like I’ve spontaneously turned into Bigfoot in front of him.
“What did you say?” he asks slowly, his voice pure smolder.
“Umm—I said this is my favorite place in the world and...let’s celebrate?” I venture, unsure why he’s so freaked out.
“No. Your new job, where is it?”
“Brandt Ideas. The most incredible architecture firm in the city,” I say with a smile. Does this mean he appreciates art like I do?
He shakes his head, answering my question, and it’s not a happy head shake.
I don’t get it. Does he have some beef with them?
How could an art admirer—one who ended up in the architecture exhibit, no less—have anything against Beatrice Nightingale Brandt?
“Have you seen their work? You must know how talented she is,” I say, stepping closer, trying not to go all giddy.