“He said we’re in different stages of life,” she firmly reminded herself. “He doesn’t look you up and down. He’s not attracted to you.”

Deciding that she’d feel better after she ate, Mary washed her hands, glared some sense into herself in the mirror and headed back out to the dining room. As she approached, she saw John and Jack in some sort of heated discussion. John leaned forward across the table while Jack leaned lazily back, a smug expression on his face. They cut off the moment they saw her and Mary was one hundred percent positive that conversation had been about her. No doubt John defending the innocence of their friendship. She could only imagine what he’d said.

As she slid into her seat, she couldn’t help but smile down at the black coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice that had been delivered to her place. John had the same at his. “Thanks,” she told him.

“You’re welcome.”

They ordered breakfast, and when Jack handed over his menu, Mary felt his focus shift to her.

“So, Ms. Trace. Tell me about yourself.” He turned those dark eyes on Mary, so unlike John’s, and Mary couldn’t help but feel as if she were on the witness stand. There was something in Jack’s gaze that was complicated. He was reserving his judgment of her based on her answers to his questions, and he wanted her to know it.

“Jack—” John started.

Mary cut in. She wasn’t scared of Jack Whitford. She’d been raised by Naomi Trace, for shit’s sake. She knew how to deal with judgment when it sat down at the breakfast table.

“Well, I own a shop in Cobble Hill that does very well for itself. I’ve lived in Brooklyn for six years. I was born and raised in Connecticut, although I did my undergrad at Rutgers.”

“And you’re friends with my son.” He stressed the word friends in a subtle yet accusatory way.

“Actually, I was originally friends with Estrella. She’s the one who introduced us.”

Just as she’d expected it might, the mention of his ex-wife altered whatever line of questioning he’d been headed down. He blinked at her for a moment. “Right.”

“Whitford,” a voice said over Mary’s shoulder, and Mary craned her neck to see a very attractive man behind her. She blinked in confusion when the man’s face was pointed toward John and not Jack.

It had never occurred to her that someone would refer to John as just “Whitford.” It didn’t suit him at all.

“Willis,” John said in a voice as dry as it was gravelly. He wasn’t happy to see this man. He cleared his throat. “Jack, Mary, this is my colleague Crash Willis. Crash, this is my friend Mary Trace and my father, John Whitford.”