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“She thinks our party is not yet complete.”
Greg looked up from his menu and blinked uncomprehendingly across the table at Mycroft.
“Sorry?”
“Our waitress.” Mycroft smiled thinly. “You've noticed she's not been back since dropping off our drinks?”
Greg's head swiveled in time to see the thin, somewhat mousy woman deposit plates of something fried and covered in sauce at a nearby table before scurrying in the opposite direction.
“But ...”
“She believes we're waiting for our wives,” said Mycroft, tilting his nearly empty glass until the the ice slivers clinked together. “She rather believes it would be better to wait until we're all seated before taking our orders or even topping off our drinks. Efficient, if a little inhospitable.”
“But, we've been sitting here ...” Greg frowned at his watch. “Jesus. Nearly 15 minutes! Why would she think –”
“– If we were simply 'mates' having a swift half, we'd be at the bar gaping at the telly like the other unattached men in this establishment. That we've taken a booth and are looking at menus indicates – to her limited intellect, at the very least – that we are waiting for our 'better halves.' And then … there's this.”
Mycroft held up a hand.
Greg raised his shoulders, eyes darting from the simple gold band to Mycroft's face.
“It's on the right hand, though.”
“Yes, but I'm a man, and the waitress is not exactly a paragon of intellect or particularly observant. She could manufacture many reasons why I'd wear a wedding band on the 'wrong hand.' Perhaps I was playing squash, removed it, and just hurriedly put it back on. Perhaps I was having a quick one with my secretary and put it out of harm's way and just couldn't be arsed to put it on the correct finger. Do you see?”
Mycroft looked askance at his watered-down drink and sighed. “No doubt she believes you're my brother-in-law or something of the sort, and we're sitting making casual conversation until our lovely ladies come to join us –
Greg swore softly and looked around again. Their waitress was on her way to another table and Greg put out a hand, palm up, to halt her momentum. She looked down in shock and then over at Greg as if he'd stuck his hand up her skirt.
“Excuse me. My date and I have been waiting to order.”
She turned her head very slowly to look at Mycroft. After running a fingertip questioningly along her lip, she looked back at Greg.
“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize. I –”
Greg ignored her and smiled muzzily across the table.
“What is it you wanted, babe? The lamb?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“I was thinking the steak and mash, actually.”
“Sounds good.” Greg gave the woman a tight grimace. “Two of those. Medium. And our drinks could use refreshing. Ta.”
The woman gulped slightly and nodded, taking their glasses in slightly trembling hands. She gave them another quick look before bolting toward the bar.
Mycroft continued to stare at Greg, a smile playing on his lips.
“Forceful.”
“Hungry.”
Greg chuckled at Mycroft's answering grin. “Well, I am. Didn't have time for lunch, and after seeing what your brother had stored in the refrigerator, I hadn't thought about food until just now.”
“And to think,” said Mycroft softly. “this was supposed to be a simple drink.”
“Something like that,” said Greg with a grin. “I never fancied anything could be simple with you.”
“Mm.” Mycroft's eyes were glimmering. “You called me … babe.”
Greg flushed, but he kept smiling. “Wanted to drive home to her that you weren't my brother-in-law or a mate. Think I got the message across, yeah?”
“Ah.” Mycroft paused. “It sounded quite natural, actually.”
“So does that mean you fancy pet names?”
“As a rule, no,” said Mycroft. “But it's obvious that you do. I'm afraid, however, that I don't have much in the way of an imagination when it comes to that sort of thing.”
“It's all right,” said Greg with a shrug. “I'm not fussed. I actually don't usually pull out the cutesey names in public anyway.”
“That is a relief.”
Greg swallowed hard, counted his heartbeats and then went for it. “But, er, privately, it's quite a different matter.”
Mycroft didn't move, but Greg fancied the man's eyes had gotten darker. “Oh?”
The detective inspector nodded, wishing he had his drink because his throat was suddenly bone dry.
“I see.” There was a beat of silence. “Then I should very likely come … prepared.”
“But that's for a later,” Greg said in a light voice, desiring to change topics even though his lower body was starting to warm to the subject. “So don't get too much in a sweat about it. One thing: No 'Greggie.' That's what my mates on the pitch called me, and I hated it then.”
“Of course,” said Mycroft. “But you needn't worry. I wouldn't dream of calling you something like that for a very simple reason.”
“Yeah?” Greg was interested. “What's that?”
“It would simply be much too silly a thing to scream out whilst I was in the throes of passion with you,” said Mycroft, his eyes going deceptively wide. “Greg? Yes. Gregory? God, yes. But Greggie? Dear me, no.”
Greg's mouth dropped open. Just then the waitress returned with fresh drinks for them both. Mycroft darted an amused look at Greg before turning innocent eyes to the young woman.
“We'll take the check – and our dinner in takeaway boxes.” He smiled magnificently at Greg, who was still trying to gulp down air, and put his hand over the detective's caressing it gently. “I don't believe we'll be needing dessert.”