"Hey, and you must be Ari," René said, returning the greeting with his usual, affable smile. "Yeah, that was me; looks like they sent over a hell of a delivery girl. Come on in." Reaching for the bag—it looked heavier than the box, from the way the handles were pinching into her skin—he took it and set it down next to where she placed the cake. The one he brought from home was in the kitchen, to be stowed away until later in the evening. While Ari greeted Drake, René stepped back and grabbed a novel that was on the armrest, walking from the room to hide it in an inconspicuous place.
(Earlier, between spoonfuls of soup cradled in his lap, he had read aloud from the bodice ripper bought for Drake's birthday, sitting against his good side. Most of dinner was spent trying to get Merri to read the male protagonist's lines. That had been memorable, if anything.)
"Champagne?" he asked once he returned, his hand curved around the back of his neck. Maybe reading while suffering from a headache hadn't been a good idea. He grinned through it, and chipped in with, "Is that who you've been practicing lines for?"