Page 22 of Xander

Eight

JORDAN

“Oh my god, Xander Maxwell!” The host was a younger man in his early twenties and the first to recognize Xander. “You’ve got a hell of a slap shot.”

“Thanks for watching, man,” he said, smiling. “Could we get a table for two? The member name is registered under Maxwell.”

The country club had a restaurant for the exclusive use of members and their families. The host didn’t take long to look up our membership between swooning over Xander. “Do you want to sit by the window or in a booth? It’s not too cold out, so our courtyard is also open for dining today.”

“The courtyard,” Xander replied. “Somewhere with a lot of sun.”

“Yeah, man, sure, anything.” He nodded excitedly.

Bemused, I followed in their wake. The man hadn’t glanced at me once. It didn’t surprise me; people had always felt struck by Xander’s magnetism. He was attracting quite a bit of female attention, too, and I doubted any of them recognized him. For as long as I’d known him, girls had chased after Xander. I always found it odd that he never gave anyone the time of day.

A glazed look descended over his eyes as the host cornered him with his thoughts on the play-by-play of last season’s game. Xander nodded politely, murmuring in all the right spaces, and it hit me. How often did people approach him? Armchair sports commentators—some of them drunk, many of them likely had never played a game in their life—offering their opinion on how this game should have been played or how that play had been flubbed.

Exhausting.

Xander glanced at me as I settled into my seat, and so did the host for the first time. He looked me up and down, then his mouth opened and shut. The man didn’t pull his eyes away from me as if waiting for something, but what?

“That’ll be all.” Xander appeared calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice. He was probably annoyed by the unsolicited advice.

The host finally lowered his gaze.

“I see what you mean,” I said dryly when the young man walked away. “I’m sure it gets old, being hockeysplained to by amateurs.”

“It’s the helicopter fans I can’t stand,” he said, watching the host with icy eyes that glistened like emeralds in the sun. “The ones who think they own you because they come to every one of your games.” He relaxed a little when the man was no longer in sight. “What about you? I’m sure you have all kinds of stories about clients who don’t want to be neat and aspirational.”

While I tried to think of a story that wouldn’t get me sued if it got out, our waitress came up to the table. There was an aura of enthusiasm surrounding her that made me suspect that our little host had blabbed about the not-so-secret identity of their newest patron.

Technically, this buzz was exactly what Henry wanted—for people to take photos of us discreetly and leak them to the media.

“Hello,” she purred. “I’m Macey, and I’ll be your server today. Our special today is crêpes salées and cold cucumber soup. For drinks, we have a blackberry sage fizz or a Bière de Garde on tap.”

Xander looked at me, and so did our waitress, reluctantly. “We’ll get two charcuterie boards. The meat and cheese one, and the vegetarian. What do you want to drink, Jordan?”

“I’ll have a French 75 and—do you do Manhattans? I didn’t see them on the menu, but they’re his favorite.”

Xander watched me in that strangely intense way. Our server nodded, frowning.

“Excellent. Then one of those for my stepson.”

She brightened at that, giving Xander another beaming look. “Got it. I’ll have your drinks right away.”

I watched her go with a new pep in her step.

“Why did you say that?” he asked.

“What?” I looked up from placing my napkin on my lap. “Did you not want a Manhattan?”

“You called me your stepson.”

“Yes.” I blinked, puzzled. “Because you are.”

“Jordan,” he said. “Didn’t you notice our waitress?”

“She was very pretty,” I said diplomatically. “You should get her number.”