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?”
Easton narrowed her eyes. “You know it doesn’t. But it does require moving on. It’s been thirteen years, Parker. Don’t you think it’s time?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to.” I shrugged. “However, I know how it’s supposed to feel, and I’ve tried to find it again and failed. Maybe a person is only allowed it once in their lives. Why waste all that energy dating men who don’t fit when I can just concentrate on the things that make me happy? Like my job. And helping my little sister plan the wedding of the century.”
Now it was Easton’s turn to snort. “Helping me plan a wedding is the equivalent to dental torture for you.”
“I’m your maid of honor.”
“Yes. You are. But I love you and I don’t want to torture you, so I officially release you from all maid-of-honor duties. Just turn up for the dress fittings and the wedding events and I’ll be happy.”
“I love you, you know that, right?”
She grinned. “I’m very lovable.”
“You are. But I refuse to relinquish my maid-of-honor duties. My little sister is getting married and I want to be a part of it.” Even if my idea of a bachelorette party was a quiz night followed by takeout and hanging out at my apartment with the girls. Somehow, I didn’t think that would cut it for Easton. It was going to have to involve a trip somewhere. Vegas or Hawaii.
And she’d want strippers.
Mostly to mortify our mother.
“Fine, but I want strippers on my bachelorette trip,” Easton said, pointing a finger at me, her expression determined.
Chuckling to myself, I nodded as I glanced down at my cell.
ParkerB: Do you know any male strippers?
There was no immediate answer.
As I bit into my bagel, I got a text.
HotHarley: I’m gonna have to charge extra for that, Tinker Bell.
I laughed, almost choking on my breakfast.
“Your boss really must be funny, huh?” Easton had a knowing twinkle in her eye.
Oh God, I didn’t know what was worse. Worrying about my parents finding out from Stephen Chancer’s aunt that I was “dating” Rhys Morgan, or my sister thinking I had a crush on Jackson.
This is what happened when you lied, people.
In the words of Sir Walter Scott, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
“Did you just mutter Shakespeare under your breath?” Easton asked.
Poor Sir Walter Scott. “I’m thinking Hawaii for the bachelorette.” I sought to distract her again.
Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, yes. Strippers in loincloths. Mom will die.”