Good Gods

Chapter 18

Let me back up a sec and explain a little about Rip. Or, er, a little bit about how Rip fits into our household. See, I get it that in today's society it might seem a little strange that we have a guy who's always hanging around our place, lounging on our leather couches, or in our pool, while wearing his Speedo. Yes, Rip wears an itty-bitty, tinny-weenie, bright red Speedo. He says it's European and that makes it okay. Personally, I get exhausted seeing his junk jiggling on my patio.

And hello... Rip? How come I'm only just getting his name? R.I.P. it's like smack-my-head bad. Again, as I've said, I'm slow on the uptake.

Anyway, might seem strange why I'm okay with my husband's friend always hanging at our place fully cooking, ie burning, his food. He even scorches his cereal. Who does that? Really?

See, Roman and Rip are a complete package. Go together like a left and right boot.

When Roman gets into one of his moods, enter Rip and his dark-snarky humor. He's got a magical anti-Roman disarmer. I think, it's because the two men are compatible in a way, they don't seem to blend into the regular world.

I'd been dating Roman for about a month. In that time, he'd laid a territorial claim to a table at Egg Us. I've said this before, Roman has a way of dominating about any space he occupies, and my restaurant didn't get a pardon from his ultra-testosterone charms. The hostesses had surrendered trying to sit other customers in his spot. She'd even gone as far as scratching the table off the seating chart. Roman's excessive tipping had been extended to all the staff, and so long as he kept the green flowing, I got to wait on him exclusively.

I'd just dropped off a full tray of eggs and pancakes, and turned around to top-off Roman's coffee when I'd noticed that his normally solo table had a guest. I did a double take.

Rip was perched directly across from Roman and my first impression of our permanent houseguest was anything but the friendly suave man I would later know him to be. Instead, he'd had his finger in Roman's face while his other fist was pounding the table.

"Have you lost your mind?" He'd spat at Roman, his face red and splotchy from the color rising on his cheeks. "If you keep this up, everything we've worked for will crash down upon us."

"Celina?" Roman waved me casually over. Then, despite the other man's obvious mood, he leaned back in his chair and calmly sipped at his mug "My friend here needs some coffee."

Rip kicked back his chair and stood. "Have you heard anything I've said?"

"Ah," feeling awkward at being pulled into the men's altercation, I motioned to the waitress stand. "Would you like a menu too, Sir?"

Typical Celina lame. I do that a lot. But Rip stopped. His body turned ridged in place. His face went blank. With calculated stiffness, he'd shifted from glaring at Roman to focusing on me.

He'd sat down hard in his chair.

"Oh my," he'd breathed. "I could've walked right by her."

"You could've," Roman grumbled. Then to me, "Yes, he would like a menu."

I'd hurried off to retrieve one. On my return to the table, I'd found a very different scene. Rip had one of his long skinny legs crossed over his knee. He'd arranged his paisley scarf and was reclining in the chair in a typical California cool way. He was even laughing at a remark Roman had made.

"So, lovely," he'd asked while fanning himself with the menu. "What in this fabulous establishment did the chef over cook today?"

That was years ago. Today, all I can do is stammer at the man.