Andrea turns to look across the room at Lance. He’s sitting with the escort near a window and scowling at a crystal glass filled with a lime green liquid. A small white flag hangs off the side of the cup.
“I believe Mr. Hamilton has been served a limeade,” the waiter says. “It’s especially sour.”
Andrew laughs loudly and raises his juice toward Lance in a toast. Lance ignores him and downs the sour drink in a single swallow. Andrea turns to look at Andrew and rolls her eyes.
“Jackson may be a pain in my ass, but he has a great sense of humor,” Andrew says. “The white flag represents Lance’s surrender and the drink is as sour as defeat.”
“You don’t need to explain it to me,” Andrea says with a sigh. “I understood the joke. It wasn’t especially subtle.”
Andrew seems to be in too g
