"It's all right, don't need that either," he answered with a shamless smirk.
Brian moved closer. "You don't know what you're missing, Mr. Archibald, but then I doubt the paparazzi would have let that go undocument. Bad for the family business, isn't it?" He didn't need a written explanation to know what was going on. It was too obvious in the man's voice. "Savannah? Nah, she's 5'2", peppy, Southerner, Christian. She also trains constantly, can shoot a sniper rifle, turn into fire and then smile and offer you cookies. So I stay away."
He snorted. "Rich boy can't cook. I'm fucking shocked. Someone is having a heart attack at the surprise this very minute," he said, sarcastically. "If I minded, I wouldn't have fucking offered. I don't do what I don't want." With the possible exception of that fucking trip to the middle of no where, although watching Neal had been pretty entertaining.
He shook his head. "I was going to go later anyway. It's not a big deal. Come on, follow me." He went back to his room, leaving the door open for Nate. He found his show and his leather jacket. He was so glad that he lived in Pittsburgh and had his jacket with him. These Californians had no idea about what made a good winter jacket. He grabbed his cigarettes and zippo. "Ready to go?"