“Did you not hear the part about him throwing the tray? About the month of total silence? About the cold shoulder he gave me when I tried to explain?”
“If anything, that’s just evidence he still cares deeply about you.” She grabs another piece of sushi. “Men don’t waste perfectly good pancakes unless there’s some serious emotion there. Furthermore, men don’t make an elaborate breakfast-in-bed for women they have no feelings for. Sorry, it just doesn’t happen.”
“But—”
“Tell her I’m right, Kent.”
When there’s no response from my bodyguard, Harper elbows him sharply. “Hello! Earth to boy-toy!”
Masters glances back at us, brows raised. It’s clear his attention has been elsewhere.
“What?”
“Tell Kat that boys don’t make breakfast unless it’s serious.”
“Boys don’t make breakfast unless it’s serious,” he intones. “Happy?”
“Yes,” she announces, smiling. “Carry on with… whatever it is you’re doing.”
“I’m surveilling the area for possible threats.”
“Right. Sure, honey.” She pats him on the head fondly, like you would a delusional golden retriever who thinks he’s an intimidating guard dog.
Masters’ mouth twists. “Two paparazzi are parked outside in the blue sedan across the street. There’s a girl taking Snapchat videos of Kat beneath the high-top near the bar. A teenage boy has walked past our booth three times, pretending to use the bathroom, but unless he’s got IBS, my guess is he’s trying to get a good look at Kat to store in his spank-bank for later. Gross, but harmless,” he says, when he sees my grimace of disgust. “Also, our waitress has changed twice since we got here, so I’m guessing there’s some kind of bidding war going on in the kitchen over who gets to snoop on our conversation while serving you your third martini.” He stares at Harper, bemused, before turning back to watch the restaurant. “But, by all means, let me know if you need another vital opinion regarding your girl talk.”
Harper and I both look at each other with wide eyes.
Oh my god, I mouth at her.
So sexy, Harper mouths back, faking a swoon.
“Yeah, I am,” Masters agrees without looking, somehow attuned to our wordless conversation despite the fact that we haven’t spoken aloud.
I stare at my best friend for an incredulous moment. I don’t know whether to laugh or applaud.
She’s at a loss for words when it comes to her super-sleuth boyfriend. After another large gulp of martini, she swiftly shifts the course of conversation.
“Don’t worry about Wyatt. We’ll fix it.”
“Whatever you say,” I murmur doubtfully.
“The real question is, how doyoufeel abouthim?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you feel while you were with him that night?”
“I don’t know.”
She huffs in frustration. “Okay, but how did you feel when—”
“Harper!” I snap.
“Fine, fine.” Her face darkens into a scowl. “Apparently questions have been outlawed. Free speech is a thing of the past.Excuseme, I thought this was America.”
“It is. Feel free to file a Freedom of Information Act request — your response should arrive in about six months.” I smile sweetly.
“Yeah, you’re a real patriot, Firestone.” She shakes her head and sips her drink, muttering something that sounds likeobstinate idiotunder her breath between swallows.