Page 38 of Over & Out

I don’t know whether to drop my jaw at him being completely accustomed to women nearly fainting around him, roll my eyes, or deal with this weird spike of possessive jealousy, likeI’mwith Hopper, and the Duke is formyfantasies alone.

I clear all three away with a clap of my hands. “Sorry kids,” I say tightly. “We’ve got a meeting.”

Hopper smirks at me once we’ve moved along. “Kids?”

“What should I have called them? Fangirls? Groupies? Swooning ladies?”

He stops. “Chris. Are you?—”

“Don’t finish that thought.” He was going to say jealous. “Because fuck no.” I deflect hard. “I thought you didn’t like signing autographs.”

His smirk slips into a grimace. “It’s always weird.”

“But you’re so famous.”

I cringe at my choice of wording, but Hopper doesn’t blink. “I’m used to it. But it’s still weird. I’m just a person. And not that great a person at that.” He gives a self-deprecating kind of smile as he procures a hat from his pocket—I’m learning he never travels without one—and pulls it low onto his head.

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” I say.

“Why not?” He pulls the front door open, gesturing for me to go through. “It’s true. I was an ass to you when we first met. Still am half the time. You should see my dick jar.”

Unfortunately as he says those last words, whichwere a little loud since I was in front of him, an elderly woman coming out the door next to us gasps, hand to chest.

“I didn’t meanyoushould see my dick jar,” Hopper says to her, which only makes her choke.

“Oh myGod, Hopper,” I say, trying hard not to laugh. “You actually made someone clasp their pearls!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, sounding proud.

I half want to elbow him and half want to hear stories. More than that, I feel a glow of pride that he’s using the dick jar as promised. I didn’t honestly put much stock in him following through on that one. But Hopper, I’m learning, usually means what he says.

The minute we enter the lobby, a kinder-looking older couple waves at us from the lavish stairway across the lobby. They look not like fans, but like they’ve been expecting us.

“Friends of yours?” I ask as Hopper waves back.

The woman wears a muted beige pantsuit and a thick strand of pearls, while the man rests his hands on the vest in the middle of his full-on three-piece outfit.

“Al and Margaret.”

“They look like they belong on the cover ofGrandparents’ Quarterly. Wait, are thoseyourgrandparents?”

“They’re the owners, Chris. Try to keep up.”

I scowl. But I’m embarrassed not to have known this piece of information. “I didn’t know we’d be getting a personal welcome,” I say. “Especially after…you know.” The words unsaid are “you trashed the joint.”

Hopper’s jaw tenses.

I feel bad for bringing that to mind, but hediddo it.Except this kind of reception isn’t what I’d expect considering what the press said about the condition of the room. “Also, why didn’t you tell me we’d be seeing them?” I whisper as we approach. “I could have added them to the schedule.”

“We’re friends,” he says tersely. “Or should I tell you all about the millions of those I have?”

There’s a distinct note of self-deprecation in his tone, and I realize I haven’t heard of Hopper having any friends at all, or at least none that don’t work for him. My heart squeezes a little at that, but I don’t have time to analyze that because the woman throws open her arms as she covers the last few feet between us.

“Hopper!” the woman exclaims, like he’s their long-lost son.

“It’s been too long!” Al exclaims when they’ve finished with the hugs and back pats. Margaret clasps her hands under chin, cooing at him like he’s a six-three baby.

I’m suddenly wondering if the press mostly gets things wrong. I mean, of course they get things wrong. That article talking about how Hopper refuses all autographs and routinely makes children cry got things wrong, obviously.

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