I frowned. Since when did I want to? Cursing was blech and unnecessary. Or was that just my mother talking?

Rhys Morgan, damn you. He was infiltrating my headspace.

“Yes, I’m very lucky,” Easton said, dreamy-eyed. I felt a prickle of envy as I remembered how it felt to love someone like she loved Oliver.

“He’s very lucky.”

“Yes, I know.” My sister shot me a look. “But I’m allowed to think I’m lucky too.”

“Of course, you are. Omelet, you say.” I mused over the menu. “I’m thinking bagel.”

“You’re distracted today. You were distracted last night too.”

“Work is all-consuming,” I lied.

The truth was I’d been worrying about my parents finding out about Rhys and, at the same time, a little disconcerted to find myself itching to text the man. When he’d dropped me off after the party, I’d told him I’d be in touch when I needed him next.

So far there’d been no need of him.

Hmm.

The waiter arrived and my sister and I studied each other. I was waiting for the Stephen Chancer bomb-drop, and she was waiting for me to admit there was something going on I hadn’t told her about.

My cell sounded a musical ditty that announced a text. “I have to,” I said apologetically as I reached for my purse. “It could be work.”

It wasn’t work.

HotHarley: No hours for me this weekend, Tinker Bell?

I grinned, hearing his Boston accent in my head.

ParkerB: Bored, Morgan?

HotHarley: I don’t do bored. Got nothing, then?

ParkerB: Not this weekend. You’re free to watch wildlife documentaries. I’ll send some tissues.

HotHarley: No need. I have my own. What you up to?

I frowned at the question, even as my stomach fluttered.

ParkerB: I’m spending time with my sister. We’re ordering breakfast.

HotHarley: Well, if you weren’t so stuck on keeping our deal from your family, I could have made you both my famous frittata.

He cooked?

He rode a hot bike (the emission levels were terrible and my guilt was real over the fact that it had not diminished its appeal nearly enough), he watched wildlife documentaries, and he cooked.

Ugh, I should have stuck with Dean. He was way less complicated.

ParkerB: Is that a euphemism? Or did you just admit to being able to cook?

HotHarley: I just admitted to being able to FUCKING cook. There’s a difference.

“Okay, who are you texting that’s making you smile like that?” Easton’s voice cut through my Rhys bubble.

My head jerked up. I was mortified to realize I’d momentarily forgotten she was there. “Um, my boss.” I hedged. “He’s a funny guy.”

“Single?” Easton asked, hopeful.

I snorted. “No. Even if he was, you’re really encouraging me to sleep with my boss?”

“I’m encouraging you to be happy.”

“And that requires a man?”