The laughter disappears. His eyes get alarmingly serious. “Maybe I don’t know them all, but I know enough.”
Harper rolls her eyes dismissively. “Uh huh. Whatever you say.”
She starts walking toward the kitchen, but he blocks her path.
“Already know I have to order double bacon on the side of breakfast, otherwise you’ll steal mine. Already know you spend almost as much money buying new makeup products as you make applying them to people’s faces. I know that when you say you’re going to yoga on Sunday mornings, you’re actually at church because your mom back home in Iowa would worry if you didn’t go, but religion isn’t consideredcoolin LA. I know there’s a thirty percent chance your hair will be a different color every time I see you. Also know, no matter what color it is, it’ll look good on you. I know that even though you insist you want to stay in your tiny ass city apartment forever, you really want a big house in the suburbs with four bedrooms you can fill with kids, because you’ve got two Pinterest boards filled with fixer-upper Victorians and Tudors set as your damn computer homepage.” He pauses. “Know that I’d like to help you fill those rooms, too.”
Harper’s mouth is hanging open and her eyes are wet with tears.
Mine are suspiciously wet, as well.
Masters smirks, pleased with himself. Walking over to Harper, he plants a quick kiss on her forehead, then turns and heads for the kitchen.
“Got any eggs, Miss Firestone? I’ll make breakfast.”
When he’s gone, Harper looks at me, weeping steadily, and I stare back at her with watery eyes.
“So… I totally love him,” she says miserably.
“I know.” I grin at her.
“You realize what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“I’ll never have a secret again! Our whole lives together, he’ll know everything about me! That’s… that’s just wrong! It’s disgusting!”
“Disgustinglycute, maybe,” I correct, smiling faintly.
She scoffs. “Whatever. I need eyeliner. And a hairbrush. And coffee. In that order.” She scoffs. “But everyone probably already knows that, because apparently I have no secrets anymore.”
I lay a hand over my stomach as I watch her stalk upstairs to my master bathroom. My smile dims a few watts.
“Secrets are overrated,” I whisper to the empty room.
Seven
“Ithinkwe should probably see other people.”
- A guy who is already seeing other people.
The restof the day is remarkably unremarkable. We eat a massive breakfast prepared by Masters because apparently there is nothing in the world he does poorly, and that includes cooking a feast of pancakes, bacon, and Eggs Benedict. I’m careful about what I put on my plate, wary of setting off another untimely bout of morning sickness by angering the tiny dictator growing inside me.
I consider it a Christmas gift that I make it through the entire morning without hurling once.
Thoroughly stuffed, we collapse on my couch and watch old, black and white holiday movies for hours, until the late afternoon shadows slant long and low across the hardwood floor.
We’re all drowsy and half-sleeping when the security gate buzzer goes off.
“It’s busier than LAX here today,” I mutter, heading for the front door with Masters tight on my heels. Harper isn’t far behind.
I reach blindly for the button to open the gate, but Masters stares pointedly at the video-com panel on the wall.
“That monitor? Not just decorative. It’s there for a reason.Useit.”
I sigh and press a button to pull up the video feed. A sleek black Mercedes, driven by an unfamiliar, middle-aged woman, is loitering at the entrance. Between the gleaming Rolex on her wrist and the leather briefcase on the seat beside her, I’m guessing she’s not here to rob me at gunpoint.
I push a button to open the gate and watch as her car rolls down the drive. She steps out in a tailored suit and walks to my door, wearing impatience like some women wear perfume — in a cloud, saturating the very air around her.