Jay narrowed his eyes. “What’sthatlook mean?”
“It means I told you I could last more than half an hour. And I did.”
14
Jay
“I’m just saying, waffles remain the superior food.” Rafe’s voice drifted out of the bathroom, along with the sound of running water as he shaved. “They’re crispy. They’re airy. They have crevices to hold butter. Pancakes are fine. They’re great. But I’d think you’d have learned the truth about waffles by now.”
“AndI’mjust saying you’re as hopelessly misguided now as you ever were, because there’sstillno realm where soft, pillowy, butter-and-syrup-absorbent pancakes are ranked under waffles,” I called back, dragging my suitcase onto the hotel bed so I could dig out a fresh pair of jeans. “And I’ll fight you on that.”
“Have you ever heard of chicken and pancakes? No you haven’t. But chicken andwaffles? That’s a staple food. Think about it.”
“Oh, I’m thinking!” I shouted back, grinning like an idiot. “I’m thinking you just proved my point, because I bet the Venn diagram of people who think waffles are superior and the people who eat fried chicken with maple syrup is acircle.”
Rafe stepped out of the bathroom, razor in one hand, face still mostly covered in shaving cream, bare chest gleaming in the light, towel wrapped around his waist, pure sex exuding from every freakin’ pore. “I’m gonna make you eat those words.”
“Mmm. I invite you to try,” I countered, but the words came out a little too warm and raspy, more invitation than challenge, and Rafe’s answering smile as he turned back to the sink said he heard it loud and clear.
I smiled, too. I really loved our silly conversations almost as much as I loved our competitiveness over absolutely everything. We’d just eaten breakfast, and it was amazing how pancakes three days in a row could improve a man’s outlook on life. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. I was ready to write a love song sappier than any hair metal band ever recorded called “Rafe Goodman Is My Fucking Boyfriend, Fuck Yeah,” and life was really,reallygood.
Which, of course, was when my phone started vibrating on the dresser with text message alerts.
“Is that Debbie again?” Rafe called—damn his eagle ears. “You’ve gotta answer one of these days and find out what she wants, babe. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”
I blew out a breath. “Her saying she’s dropping me as a client because I refuse to do a big media thing. My recording career might be over. I might be forced to give up my apartment, change my name, live off my savings until I’m penniless, and spend the next forty years of my life camped out on a park bench, all alone, talking to myself about how I used to be famous.”
“Aw, honey. You know that last part will never happen,” Rafe chided gently from the bathroom.
I pressed a hand to my heart. “You mean, I won’t be alone ’cause you’ll be camping out with me? That’s so sw—”
“God, no.” He appeared in the doorway again. “I meant, you’d never last forty years on a park bench with all those pigeons around.”
I laugh-sputtered and threw a pair of balled-up socks at him, but he ducked back inside to avoid them. “Asshole.”
“But I’myourasshole, baby,” he called back.
I snorted. “I think that line sounded better in your head!” I grabbed the phone off the dresser and punched in my passcode, grinning like a fool now that Rafe was in the bathroom and couldn’t see me.
But when I opened the message app to see what Debbie wanted, my smile fell away because I saw that the messages weren’t from Debbie.
And, in fact… this wasn’t my phone.
Rafe came out of the bathroom wearing one towel and drying his face with another. “What’s the message say?”
“It’s Littlejohn. He’s all upset because Mariah Berger passed away, whoever the heck that is.” I glanced up at him and shook the phone in my hand. “This isyours.”
“Oh.” He shrugged, but then his eyebrows winged up. “Wait, how’d you open it?”
“I just… typed my code!”
His eyes widened. “Wait, my birthday is your password?”
I felt my face go hot.
“Oh, shit! Is this what Gage meant when he said we should play ‘Guess My Password’?”
“He said that?” I demanded. The boy was dead meat.
