bag down on the counter. “I got us eggs and pancake mix and this pack of ready-made shredded potatoes. They’re supposed to be foolproof.”
“Sounds good to me.”
There was another knock at the door as I poured us each a glass of water, my hands full. Harrison, laughed, gesturing for me to not worry about it. “I got it. It’s probably Reagan.”
I looked at the clock. “Mark it in the history books. She’s punctual for the first time in her life.”
Harrison’s laugh cracked as the door opened, and his shoulders tightened.
“Harrison,” Tate’s voice came from the other side, and it was brittle.
“Hey, Tate.” Harrison leaned on the door, blocking any entry Tate may have had.
I popped up from the couch and rushed over. I was still in my flannel pajama bottoms, a T-shirt, and my ratty robe I’d had since freshman year of high school—I didn’t see the need to dress for an in-house brunch. Until now. “Tate?” I leaned around Harrison, and sure enough, there he was. He glared at me, one hand fisted around Buddy’s leash, the other clenched around a box from Jolie. Then a smile tugged at his lips as he took in my jammies and ratty robe.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly, shifting his attention back to Harrison. “I guess I didn’t realize you had company.”
Harrison stood stiffly beside me, and I nudged him with an elbow. “Harrison,” I snapped. “Why don’t you go start the omelets?”
His eyes stayed fixed on Tate, but he finally nodded, stepping back. “Sure thing.”
“He just got here.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder to Harrison. I knew how it looked—bad.
“Oh?” Tate seemed to examine me, eyes wandering from my wrinkled robe and slept-in T-shirt down to my bare feet and pj bottoms. “Well, I guess you don’t need these.” He wiggled another to-go box of something from Jolie.
A giddy sort of excitement twitched inside of me as he untied the ribbon and opened the box.
“Madeleines,” I whispered. “That’s nice of you, but not necessary.”
He shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you were eating.”
I swallowed. “And Madeleines were the most nutritional option?” I should have said that wasn’t his concern, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
That grin stretched wider, creasing his dimples. “You can only eat so many croissants.”
I shook my head. “No way…they never get old.”
“Noted.” He stepped back, giving Buddy’s leash a gentle tug. “I’ll see you later, right? Study date?”
I chewed my bottom lip. God, this was going to suck. I’d never had to have this conversation, maybe because I’d never had such a strong connection with anyone before Tate. I nodded. “I’ll see you later,” I managed.
He pushed the elevator button, and as the doors opened, Reagan hopped out and Tate got on. She carried a bottle of champagne and rushed toward my open door. “Guess what?” she squealed.
It took me a second, but I grabbed her wrist, squeezing. “You got the part? In Singin’ in the Rain? Kathy—”
“Seldon!” she finished with me, and we both jumped up and down, screaming like a couple of sorority girls during rush. I ushered her inside, popped the champagne, and poured mimosas all around. I clinked glasses with my friends and grinned. “This is a good day.”
Harrison sipped the mimosa and grunted, scrunching his face. “I think I need some guy friends,” he groaned. “Just yesterday, you were crying to me on the way to get your car about how awful your night with Tate was—”
“I’m sorry, what? Your night with who?” Reagan screeched.
“Not like that,” I cut in. Well, it was kind of like that, but Harrison certainly didn’t need to hear those details. I’d fill Reagan in later. I sighed and repeated the story of how we were held at gunpoint, and how Tate was hurt and I didn’t know it. I repeated the account of my meltdown pretty factually, leaving out the part where we were naked in his bed with his dick in my mouth.
“Oh my God.” Reagan narrowed her eyes, assessing me, and I shook off her stare. “And he’s still calling you? He must really like you.”
I groaned, falling back onto my futon. “I have to end it.” I didn’t know if I was trying to convince them or myself.
“Yeah, but do you like him?” Harrison asked, whipping the eggs in a bowl.
I did. And that was the problem. So, instead of answering, I did what I do best—I deflected. “Not as much as Reagan likes her Gene Kelly lookalike,