Drum stood there, dressed in a white tuxedo jacket and black trousers. Neatly styled facial hair covered his cheeks, chin, and upper lip.
“Good evening, Cyril,” Valentine said, giving him a sunny smile.
“Spike!” He frowned at him. “Are you here for dinner? You’ll have to eat in the kitchen. We’re booked solid.”
“We have reservations.” Valentine smirked. “Duchesne, party of five.”
“Duchesne? That’s you?”
“Yep.”
Drum checked the book with the reservations. He made a notation, not looking at all happy.
Valentine leaned back and whispered, “He’s such a stuffed shirt.”
Fortunately, Drum didn’t hear him. He retrieved five leather-bound menus and gave a brisk nod.
“If you’ll—” He began to choke. He’d finally spotted me. “Qu-Quinn?” Since when had he started calling me by my first name?
