Page 16 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
Igor BigJerksy is laughing at something the hostess said as she lays a hand on his big tree-trunk-like forearm, flirting.
I roll my eyes.
“What’s the matter with that?” Hunter asks.
“With what? Nothing, why?”
“You rolled your eyes when I said we could make it to market in three months.”
Shit.
“Oh, um, I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t rolling my eyes at that.”
“What were you rolling them at?” He narrows his own eyes at me.
“Uh, I was trying to get a piece of lint off my eyelash without have to touch my eyes.”
He nods and continues talking.
The server brings our meals at the same time the hostess shows Gregor to his table, a four-top that is three tables away from ours.
He’s eating alone. Huh.
His hulking form takes up most of the space around him and over half the table.
No wonder he has to eat alone. No one else could fit at the table with him.
I turn my attention to my entree— a chicken breast with steamed vegetables.
“It’s nice to see you eating healthy,” Hunter says, gesturing to my plate. “Helps keep you lean.”
I give him a small smile in response. He’s right, it does keep me lean. Not everyone can have the metabolism of a teenage boy, like Hunter seems to.
He ordered pasta, which he cuts with a knife and fork before bringing it to his mouth. Before him, I’d never seen anyone eat pasta that way. I find it odd and fascinating at the same time.
My chicken is rubbery. Often the result of asking for a baked breast plain, no oils, no seasonings. And my vegetables are soggy. It’s just depressing when a restaurant can’t steam vegetables properly. How hard can it be to bake a breast and steam some broccoli?
Sigh.
I set my fork down and dab at my mouth, then reach for my water to take a sip.
Which is when I see him.
My ex.
Pax.
Pax-mother-effing-Baldwin joins Igor BigJerksy at his table and the two laugh about something. Neither have seen me, thank god. And they won’t if I have anything to do with it.
I drink Pax in. I can’t help it. It’s been years since I’ve seen him in person.
He looks good.
Pax is wearing his typical attire of a vintage t-shirt with low-slung jeans that show off his ass, biker boots, and a leather jacket with his tousled brown hair falling over his forehead. He has the beginnings of a beard and mustache, which are a tad salt and pepper in color and make him look dangerous.
The air whooshes from my lungs.
I try to mentally steady my heart rate.
