All the couples that Alaia Repond has gotten together have stayed happily together, and at this point, she really should consider matchmaking as a profession. So when her close friend Ollie asks her to set up a friend of his, she's more than happy t...
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Franco is drunk.
Ollie trails behind him with an exasperated sigh. "Franco, you are not climbing up on that fucking bar table."
"You're no fun," Franco slurs his words, and then he spots some random, unfamiliar guy speaking to Alaia at the bar. His eyebrows furrow, and he frowns. "What's going on there?"
Ollie looks in the direction that Franco's pointing at, and never has he been more thankful for his friend being completely fucking wasted — alcohol is liquid courage, and Franco's drank a lot of alcohol tonight. "I don't know. That's not Lando either," Ollie says. "Why don't you go find out?"
"Okay." Franco says, and Ollie's surprised at how easy that was.
Franco makes a beeline for the bar, and even in his drunken stupor, he can tell how disinterested Alaia is. She's nodding absentmindedly, fiddling with the cocktail skewer perched in the glass of her drink.
"Hi," Franco says when he approaches Alaia — he doesn't look at the guy at all. The stranger turns to look at the Argentine driver who's interrupted his conversation with Alaia.
"Hey, Fran," she says, smiling at him. "How's your night?" Franco responds by slinging one arm over her shoulder and pulling her closer.
"Good."
Ollie watches this all from afar, and Paul slinks up to his side, a drink in his hand. "What's going on?" the Estonian asks.
"I don't fucking know, mate."
The stranger looks at the two of them with a confused look on his face, as if he's trying to figure out the relationship between Franco and Alaia.
In the midst of all the neon lights flashing in the club, she can't make out if he's drunk or if he's just tired. Maybe a bit of both. "Querida, come dance on the tables with me."
