"Me and Robin."
"Are you together? Did you define it? Are you his boyfriend?"
"We're — something."
"Something." His eyes go soft. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said."
Silas appears from his booth, book in hand. Takes one look at me, one look at Jason's face, and says, "Finally."
"The entire pride has a pool going," Silas adds. "I owe Ezra twenty dollars."
"You bet against me?"
"I didn't think you'd figure it out this decade." He retreats to his corner, satisfied.
Ezra materializes from wherever Ezra goes when he's not visible. Holds out his hand to Silas without a word. Silas ignores him. Ezra nods at me once — his version of a standing ovation — and disappears.
Jason is still on his stool, chin in his hands. "Have you texted him?"
"Why would I — he's at work."
"Send a good morning text. Let him know you're thinking about him."
I pull out my phone. Stare at it.
Thanks for last night— too hookup.Missing you— too intense.
Hope your morning's going well. Last night was perfect.
Simple. True. I hit send before my brain can interfere.
"Look at him," Jason says to no one. "Sending his boyfriend good morning texts."
"He's not my—" I stop. "We didn't define it."
"You stayed the night, Vaughn. You came back after leaving and held him all night. You're sending good morning texts. He's your boyfriend."
I don't argue. I go back to my workbench and pick up a wrench and try not to check my phone every five minutes.
I check it every three.
Ash's voice in my head:When it breaks, be there.
I will.
Chapter 11
Robin
It's been a week since Vaughn stayed the night and I still don't know how to be someone's boyfriend.
Not that we've used that word. We haven't defined anything, which is fine, which is exactly what I prefer, which is why I've changed the subject every time Toby asks "so what are you guys?" Because defining it makes it real and real things can break and I've never been particularly good with fragile.
But Vaughn is at Ash's house three nights out of five now, sleeping in my bed, and the other nights I'm at the bar until closing and he walks me to the Audi and kisses me against the driver's side door like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. So. Boyfriend. Probably.
Wednesday morning. Gordon's kitchen. 5 AM.
I'm piping petit fours for a gallery opening — two hundred and forty of them, each one requiring a glaze coat, a fondant flower, and a steady hand — and I'm thinking about last night. Vaughn's hands, Vaughn's mouth, the sound he makes when I—