Page 4 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Chris

“ I s there a problem?” the Duke says, tumbler at his lips—his full, plush lips, with just a hint of white teeth behind them. Pink tongue.

Problem? No. Only that my heart feels like it’s been dropped in a rut on my old dirt bike track and run over by a thousand gritty tires.

His name, of course, isn’t the Duke. It’s Hopper Emilio Lachlan Donnach, former child actor turned teen heartthrob turned action star, and now adult heartthrob.

A man who once dated an actual princess.

Who, I think, right now, is engaged to—someone famous.

Not this woman, who I realize now must be some kind of handler.

He’s thirty-six, an only child, and allegedly secretly worked at a Renaissance fair to get into character before filming The Duke and his Daffodil .

I only know all that because I read a profile in a magazine in a checkout line.

I may or may not have bought the magazine.

But none of this matters. Because movie star or not, Duke or not, the man is an absolute prick.

And I think my heart has shattered because of that.

That movie got me through some terrible times.

I still put it on whenever I’m feeling down.

Now I’ll never be able to watch it again.

If this wrecks the novels for me too, I might turn murderous.

I remind myself I don’t know him. I’m not a fan. I didn’t look him up that time; the magazine was in my face when I was buying lettuce and bananas. I know who he plays in a movie, that’s all. Still, I have to shove my hands into my apron to hide their shaking.

“No,” I say, finally answering his stupid question. “There’s no problem at all.”

I try very hard not to react when the man—Hopper—smirks. He knows showing his face has done exactly what it’s supposed to: it’s shocked me into submission. But it’s the smirk that takes the stabbing pain out of his big, stupid reveal.

I press my hands onto the table, praying he can’t see them still trembling with nerves, and zero in on his icy blue—and slightly bloodshot—eyes. “Bottoms up, buddy.”

Even under his several days’ beard growth, I can see his jaw flexing. “Excuse me. Buddy ?”

“Quit talking to yourself,” I say, demonstrating the peak of witty maturity.

“That the best you can do, bangles?” he lobs back. But a vein pops in his temple. I’m getting to him.

Now it’s my turn to smirk.

Hopper looks at the woman on the other side of the booth as if for help. But she’s watching us both. She looks rapt, in fact. Like she very much wants to see what happens next .

Same here, girl. Because if he says “do you know who I am?” I’m going to toss an oat milk latte in his lap. Scald his balls.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment. “Fine. Thank you. You know, this is actually perfect. It’s just what I was craving.”

I thought I was being so smart. But to my utter shock, instead of shoving the glass away or standing up in a huff, this man—the source of a thousand of my fantasies—opens his million-dollar lips and raises his glass.

I’m momentarily mesmerized by the pink flat of his tongue. But I get a hold of myself just in time to see him roll both sausage-covered eggs into his mouth, one after the other.

It’s impressive really, given their size. But he’s not a small man. He chews, cheeks bulging, for what feels like an eternity. The whole time, he doesn’t take his icy blue, thick-lashed eyes off me.

God dammit, I had no idea someone could resemble an oversized, hungover chipmunk and still be so stupidly handsome.

Hopper Donnach swallows calmly, then sets the glass back on the table with a dull clink. Still, he won’t let me go with those eyes. Not even after he shakes out his cloth napkin and pats his mouth like a stupid, gorgeous duke.

“What’s the matter, bangles?” he asks as he tosses the napkin onto the table. “That smart tongue of yours seems to be a little tied.”

Hearing him say tongue in reference to my tongue does something weird to my insides. Either that or my ire has reached new heights .

“Nothing’s the matter,” I say, surprising myself with the coolness of my tone given the heat going on inside me. “I’m just impressed with how expertly you were able to fit two large balls into your mouth at once.”

One eyebrow lifts. “I’ll try anything twice.”

I open my mouth, then snap it shut again. Just when I think I’ve got him .

The man smirks once more. Then he finally looks away, his expression bored. “That’s all, thanks.”

I don’t know if it’s the look or the words.

Or the fact that this man doesn’t know me from Eve but has caught me at my lowest. But that heat before?

Suddenly it’s straight-up lava flooding my veins.

This arrogant, entitled asshole has stuck a finger in the softest, most vulnerable parts of me, and all I am to him is an inconvenience.

An anger I haven’t felt in years, fueled by years of stuffed-down pain, has me straightening my back, my hands on my hips.

“Yes. That is all. Because I’m not serving you. ”

The man snaps his gaze to me. “You have to serve me. That’s your job.”

“No, see, there’s this thing called the right to refuse service.”

He opens his mouth, but the woman speaks first. “Hopper,” she says, her voice steely. “That’s enough.”

I expect him to throw a hissy fit. That’s what entitled celebrities do, right? But to my shock, he closes his eyes and leans back against the booth.

“He’s sorry, right?” she says, eyes on him.

Hopper opens his eyes, blinks at the woman, then pins them on me. “Yeah. ”

“I’m so sure you are,” I bite out before I can stop myself.

But the mirth I saw in those blue eyes a moment ago is gone. He suddenly looks tired. “The rumors are true; I’m a dick. I’m sorry you had to be on the receiving end.”

Is he being sincere? There’s no way. A guy like this has had everything handed to him on a silver platter and feels entitled to treat service people like trash. To hell with him and his sorry . Too little, too late.

Luckily, Luke chooses that moment to appear at the table with the tray of food. Except I remember only as he sets the plate down in front of the movie star what I ordered for him.

Luke, who doesn’t always pay great attention, sees who he’s serving as the first plate is in midair. His jaw drops so far I’m surprised it doesn’t clunk onto the table.

“Holy shit, it’s the Laser!” he says, referencing, I think, some superhero movie.

But as he says it, he drops the plate directly onto the wood tabletop.

A loud crack sounds as the ceramic splits in two, and all four of us watch—some in horror, some in awe—as the rubbery hunk of goat falls off the table, bounces like a basketball, and rolls across the floor in a wet splatter, hitting some poor woman’s shoe.