Some no-name punk thought he could flex in front of Stan Harrison? In front of Stan's friends? Then he could damn well honor his own bragging.
"You sure you don't want to just pick up the tab?" Wade asked, the corner of his mouth twitching nervously. "Save us all the trouble. I'd hate for things to get awkward."
"No." Stan's reply was cold and decisive.
Wade blinked. "No?"
"You said it was on you. Twice. Loudly." Stan turned to the waiter. "He's covering everything. Bring two more cases of Louis XIII."
The waiter glanced at Wade. Wade's jaw worked. He couldn't say no, not after the show he'd put on walking in here, not in front of this table, not without admitting the whole performance had been hot air.
"...Fine," Wade gritted out. "Two more cases."
"And the tomahawk. Two of them. Whatever the chef recommends, bring it all."
"You," Wade started.
"What?" Stan met his eyes. "You hosting or not?"
The table went still.
