Not stopped dreaming, just stopped asking.
While the eggs cooked slowly, Patrick cut up an avocado and an orange he found in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. He checked the coffee in the French press and poured cups for thetwo of them. If he couldn’t see her naked today, at least he could cook her a decent breakfast.
It would be easier to ignore if she had not kissed him. Just a peck, but it was a terrible bone to throw to a starving dog. He had barely been able to think of anything else. Not that she wanted to discuss it.
Time was ticking, and his plan to tell her how he felt was going exactly nowhere.
Through the closed bathroom door, he heard the blow dryer running.
“Breakfast is almost ready!” Patrick called.
Anita nudged the door open. She was already dressed in her usual daily outfit of gray sweater, leotard, and leggings—unfortunately—but her damp hair framed her face like a lion’s mane. The smell of grapefruit and hibiscus clung to the steamy air.
He definitely deserved a medal for not just pushing open the door and grabbing her then and there. Hibiscus flowers. That’s what she had smelled like when she had kissed his cheek.
“You made breakfast?” Anita had a blow dryer in one hand and toothbrush in the other.Sexy little multitasker.He really should stop standing there, staring at her like an idiot with a silicone spatula clutched in his fist.Great job, O’Leary.
“You need to eat. Blow dry your hair later. Eggs aren’t good cold.”
She shrugged and joined him at the table, accepting avocado toast, fruit, and scrambled eggs on her vintage mismatched plates. “I don’t think anyone has ever made me breakfast.”
He forked a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. “You’re missing out. We should have been dance partners ages ago.” He gestured at her with his fork. “I also make a mean Bolognese.”
“And by ‘mean,’ that implies ‘barely edible.’” She smiled at him in that mocking way of hers that he loved, the way that tiltedthe corners of her eyes wickedly, then bit into her avocado toast. Ah, to be toast.
“Well, Iordera mean Bolognese.” Patrick nudged the coffee toward her. “But I can definitely do breakfast.”
They ate in companionable silence for a moment or two. This was the dream. Mornings sipping coffee and chatting after nights of rocking her world. Which he definitely would never say out loud, because this was not 1994.
Anita sipped her coffee. The steam haloed around her head. “Did you call John yet?”
“No.” Not because he had forgotten, which he kind of had. He had been thinking other things. “I thought we could call together.”
Anita nodded, tensed, and sipped at her coffee.
Inhaling deeply, Patrick put his phone on speaker and dialed.
“Pat O’Leary?” came an incredulous tinny voice over the speakerphone. “I saw your name, and I was like, who is shitting me?”
“Hey, John,” Patrick replied a little too loudly. He was never sure of speakerphone etiquette. “How are you?”
“Good, good, you know, can’t complain. Hey, I was going to call you. Do you still know Anita Goodman? My fiancée wants us to have a fancy wedding dance or something, and she’s been at me to call her.”
Anita smiled. “Hi, John,” she said softly. “This is Anita. I’m here with Patrick.”
“You two are together!” John whooped. “I always knew it. I mean Patrick had aserious—”
Patrick quickly moved to cut him off but caught Anita’s bemused glance. That fire had barely been doused. “No, we aren’t, like,togethertogether. Just friends. Still. But we are having a problem right now that we wanted to discuss with you.”
“Oh,” John said over the phone. “Gotcha. Work related. What’s going on?”
Anita and Patrick proceeded to tell the deputy everything that had occurred over the last week while John listened quietly. “Do you have pictures or copies of these messages?” he finally asked.
Patrick blanched slightly, as did Anita. “Umm, well, no,” he replied. “At first I thought it was a prank, so I deleted everything and banned the scam accounts.”
“I don’t either.” Anita’s voice was hoarse. “I didn’t even think to take a picture of the message on the mirror, or the license plate of the car. I recycled the letter. Stupid.”
“Not at all.” John’s voice was tinny over the speaker. “Happens to the best of us. The problem is, without evidence, there isn’t much we can do.”
