“I’M NOT READY FOR summer to end,” Ronan muttered as we crossed the street to the Rum Bar.
“Summer is hardly over,” Alex argued.
The humidity was unusually high today, and it was hard to imagine that July was sliding into August. I was hit with a cool blast of air as I pulled the door to the restaurant open.
Ronan signaled to the bartender for three beers. “Maybe not, but where has the time gone? I feel like I haven’t had a moment of peace.”
I slapped his shoulder as we approached an open four top. “That’s because you’re getting married, renovating a house, flying back and forth from New York to Los Angeles and isn’t your youngest starting kindergarten?”
“Not to mention, his real estate hobby,” Alex added, sprinkling salt onto his napkin.
Ronan scowled. “Jesus, are two you stalking me?”
Alex chuckled, scanning the menu. “He’s not wrong, you just need to take a few days and relax. Pump the brakes and enjoy life.”
“For the record, I’m not stalking you. It’s called peopling and I am engaging and being social.”
Ronan’s hands rubbed at his forehead. “What the fuck is peopling?”
The bartender dropped off three cold beers and Alex ordered the appetizers. “Did you learn that term from your lady friend, James?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
Ronan turned to me. “When do we get to meet this fine woman?”
“Their pictures are all over the internet,” Alex informed, jutting his chin in my direction. “Or call your sister. She’ll fill you in on his love interest.”
I took a swig of my beer. “Our relationship is still new and I’d like to get to know her better before I let you hyenas near her.”
“What?” Alex lifted his hands in surrender. “We’re harmless. It’s our counterparts you might have to worry about.”
“Nonsense,” Ronan said, waving off Alex’s comment. “As long as you’re not back with Heather—Ella and Holliday will welcome anyone with open arms.”
The bar started to fill up with weekenders and a few locals. The helicopter fans started to inch closer to our table. Alex subtly waved anyone off who looked as if they were about to approach and ask either of us for a selfie.
“Mr. Robertsen, would you prefer a private table upstairs?” the manager asked.
He shook his head. “No, in about an hour, they’ll all forget that these two are even here.”
She huffed a laugh. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“How about you bring her out to our house for the end of summer party?” Alex suggested.
I held up my hands. “I’m not making any promises.
“So, this is it, my big send off into married life?” Ronan mused.
Our server dropped off the plates and silverware for our appetizers. “What would you prefer, Connolly? Strippers? Vegas?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Oh hell no, I do not need that shit showing up on TMZ.”
“And that is no way to start off a marriage, Vegas is fucking overrated. Just ask James.” Alex smirked.
“I went to an audition the next week, and the director asked me if I had coke on my pants. Sure as fuck, I did. Apparently, wifely duties hadn’t kicked in yet for Heather.”
“Well played Vegas,” Alex said, before taking a sip of his beer. “Reason number forty-seven why Vegas is a bad idea.”
“When I confronted Heather about the cocaine, she had another form of blow in mind.”
“So not all bad then,” Alex asserted.
“Right and honestly, I was giving you guys shit, this is great.” Ronan glanced at his phone. “Shit, okay, Matt is coming in, he’s parking his car.”
“Maybe no one will recognize him.” Alex offered, signaling the bartender for another beer.
“Right,” Ronan scoffed. “Barber has the number one film in the world right now.”
“He’s more popular than voice enabled technology, Cuba, and gin and tonics.”
They looked at me as if I’d suggested we go out kicking puppies for fun. It was an article on Harlow’s website, the biggest trends of the year. She asked me to read it, so I did.
Matt walked in with his Chicago Cubs ball cap tugged low and his sunglasses shielding his eyes. Matthew Barber was one of Ronan’s oldest friends. As the story goes, they met at the VMA’s when they presented an award together. The prank wars between them are legendary. A few years back, Ronan set up a crowd of fans outside Matt’s hotel in Toronto, and had them chant “Ronan” all night long. For that stunt, Matt countered by telling various interviewers at the Venice Film Festival that Ronan was a very serious actor and when interviewing him, it’s best not to make eye contact or tell jokes, because he would become very upset.
“Hey, guys, sorry I’m late,” he said, slapping a hand to Ronan’s shoulder.
Our appetizers came out just as Matt situated himself on a barstool. Our server’s hands shook as she set the first two baskets onto the table.
Ronan spoke up. “Kacie, hi, I’m Ronan and these are my mates,” he said, tilting his head to meet her eyes. “I promise that we put our shoes on one foot at a time. We’re not here to make you feel on edge.”
Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Okay, Ronan,” she said, dropping the basket of poppers between Matt and Alex.
The three of us ordered another round of beers and Matt ordered one too and asked for a bottle of hot sauce. The guy put it on everything. Matt slid his sunglasses off his face, and then rubbed his palms together. “This looks fucking delicious. I could eat the ass end of a horse right now.”
After about fifteen minutes of devouring food and listening to Matt discuss his latest film shooting in Australia, I had serious vacation envy.
I cleared my throat. “Is anyone using the house in Sapodilla Bay next month?”
Alex raised a brow giving me a smug smile. “You’re taking her to T and C?”
Matt glanced between Alex and me. “Who is she?”
“James is wooing a lady,” Ronan said, swiping his phone to life.
“Not just any lady,” Alex announced, lifting his beer in my direction. “A lingerie model, former WAG.”
“Robertsen, you have got to stop talking to your wife about celebrity gossip. I want the old Alex back, the one who rattles off baseball stats and explains the unorthodox hazing rituals you’d put today’s youth through.”
“For your information, it’s called data collection.” Alex pointed a finger at the three of us. “It’s one of the ways I stay abreast of all the situations surrounding you chuckleheads—unless you’ve forgotten that you’re all my clients.”
Matt wiped his hands with a wet nap. “Whoa, okay, Alex can read anything he wants, InStyle or fucking Home and Garden.”
“I have a feeling I’m going to have to hire extra security for your wedding.” Alex shot Ronan a pointed glance. “And you and Holliday better not try to give my team the slip either.”
Ronan tapped his finger against the table. “The house in Turks and Caicos is available all month, so it’s all yours, James.”
“You’re not going to come back married, are you?” Matt asked.
I glowered at him. “No, I’m not going to come back married.”
“It’s a fair question, you have a history,” Alex pointed out.
“One woman. One marriage. That’s hardly a pattern of behavior. Now, Connolly on the other hand,” I suggested, dipping a few fries into ketchup. “He’s someone you should worry about.”
And under the bus goes the Irishman.