“And second”—she stuck the bottle behind the bar again and frowned at Shay—“nicknames are only sweet and sexy when they aren’t stupid and uninspired, like, for example, naming a girl after a body part. He might as well just call me head or toenail.”
I kept on smiling, thinking about how inspiring Brian’s choice of nicknames were for me, and then thinking about how much I disagreed with Tori’s opinion, because I thought Legs was a pretty sweet and sexy nickname, and clearly inspiring.
Tori’s legs were jaw-dropping.
But I would never admit my disagreement right now. We had each other’s backs, through and through.
Tori turned her head, eyes narrowing in the direction of the only occupied booth in our section, huffed, then slid the glasses across the bar in front of Shay.
“Can you take these over there for me? I want to talk to Syd.”
Shay picked up the glasses and walked away. No questions were asked.
Tori sidled up next to me.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” she began, voice lowered and unamused.
I turned and gave her my full attention, pulse racing and skin warming all over.
Tori noticed my reaction and shook her head.
“Oh, my God. Could you not look so excited right now?”
“I can’t help it!” I exclaimed, clamping a hand over my mouth after getting shushed. “He calls you Legs,” I whispered between my fingers.
Her lip twitched.
“He’s a loser.”
“He’s gorgeous,” I countered.
“He’s a gorgeous loser.”
“With great hair and dimples.”
“Looks aren’t everything, Syd.”
“No, but they’re a nice bonus.”
“He didn’t care that I was with Wes.”
I leaned closer. My stomach rolled unpleasantly.
“What?” I asked, no longer feeling the hurried beats of my heart against my ribs.
Tori’s eyes moved over my shoulder for the briefest second, then pulled back to mine.
“About five months ago he came in here and sat in my section, flirted with me, and I mean flirted, asking me out and calling me Legs, saying mine would look fantastic draped over his shoulders or spread wide in his backseat.”
My eyes bugged.
Tori shook her head and waved a dismissive hand.
“Who is he?”
“Jamie McCade, local surfing legend,” she answered flatly, completely unimpressed as she brought one arm across her body and gripped her elbow. “He’s the youngest guy ever to win so many championships in a row. He’s broken world records.”
“Wow.”
“He’s a complete dick.”
“Um.” I bit my lip. “How is he a complete dick again?”
I was still waiting for proof of his dickness. I wasn’t convinced yet.
Shay moved past us.
“I told them you’d be over in a minute to get their orders. Jamie said to tell you he misses you,” she announced, the little crossbones in her hair catching in the light overhead and shimmering.
She pulled herself up on the counter again and twisted her body, her head back in the window to resume her one-sided conversation with Stitch.
Tori didn’t even flinch at the mention of Jamie’s sentiments, but she did lower her eyes to a spot on the floor.
“What happened?” I urged her on. I needed to know.
“I told him I was seeing someone, that I was …in a relationship and happy.” She squeezed her eyes shut through a breath, inhaling and releasing slowly. “It didn’t even faze him,” she continued, lifting her head with disappointment in her crystal blues. “He didn’t care one bit that I was someone’s girlfriend, Sydney. Didn’t even throw him off his flirting game. If anything, he went at me harder after that. I was suddenly a challenge. And that disgusted me. He has no respect for love.”
I grabbed her hand that was hanging freely.
“And after all of it, after pushing me and throwing empty compliments and stupid little nicknames around, he still flirts with practically every girl in here when he comes in. They flock to him, and he just sits there and pats his lap. It’s pathetic. I’m sure he calls them Ass or Knee-Cap, or something equally unoriginal. He’s a player. And a jerk.”
“And a dick,” I added, now fully convinced.
She gave my hand a squeeze.
“Exactly. That’s why I always ask Stitch to do things to his food.”
My mouth fell open.
“Does he?” I asked, glancing over at the window Shay’s face was still halfway sticking through.
Tori shrugged, kept her long, slender fingers wrapped around my hand, and suggested, “Come on. Let’s go take their orders before Nate fires us.”
We walked back to the booth, fingers interlocked, mine holding on a little bit tighter, and this time Tori handed me her ticket book, brushing her lips against my hair when I looked nervous and unsure and reminding me that I needed to start taking orders eventually, and also, that this would be the perfect order to screw up on.
I smiled at our secret.
She nudged my hip again and turned to the boys.
“We ready?” she asked, studying her nails.
A fired off his order of fish and chips, extra chips and hold the coleslaw, folded up his menu, and slid it to the edge, doing this saying they were still waiting on a third but were starving.
B kept his eyes on Tori, his lips curved in a smile, and requested the bacon and bleu burger, cooked medium with no pickles, a side of fries, and her phone number.