“No.”
“Then you have to make the deal so sweet Klein won’t be able to say no.”
I eye Klein. He tips his chin to the ceiling, but his gaze stays locked on me. “Can you do sweet, Royce?”
My gaze narrows, and I lean in, until my breasts meet his upper arm. I brush them back and forth in the tiniest movement. “I don’t know.” My voice softens, my eyes widen. “Can I?”
“That”—a muscle in his jaw tics, and he looks like he would very much like to push me away—“was not at all sweet. That was devious.”
Grinning broadly, I pick up the pen and sign the napkin.
Klein does the same, and Halston whisks away the napkin. She drops it into a black leather purse and grins with far too much enthusiasm.
I push my plate away after finishing every last morsel. “Give me your phone.”
Klein removes it from his pocket, enters his passcode, and slides it over.
I hold it in the air between us. “Your background screen is a treehouse?”
“Alibrarytreehouse.”
“Isn’t that kind of like feeding a pig bacon?”
Klein’s nose wrinkles. “I’m not making a treehouse out of paper.”
“Just out of wood, I presume?”
Klein rests his chin on his hand and peers at me. “What it must be like in that brain of yours.”
I ignore him and dial my number. Handing him back his phone, I quiet the vibrating inside my purse. “Now we have one another’s phone number.” I wag a finger at him. “No dick pics. I do not want to know if your thingy lights up.”
Halston sputters on the water she’d been drinking. Wiping the back of her hand across her chin, she says, “What the fuck?”
Klein’s gaze remains fastened to me. “Don’t write my number on a gas station bathroom wall, Royce.”
“I’d planned a spree. You’ve ruined my plans for the evening, Madigan.”
His focus drops to my lips, and I watch him force back a smile. “Don’t your plans include more bachelorette shenanigans?”
I groan. “Speaking of,” I pause and pull my wallet from my purse. “I better get back.”
Halston waves away my credit card. “This one’s on the house. Consider it my thank you for making Klein’s life more interesting for a while. All the guy does is write, read, work, and play soccer.”
“Noble pursuits,” Klein adds in his own defense.
“Thank you for breakfast.” Tucking away my credit card, I say, “I love your name, by the way. It’s unique.”
“My mom named me after a fashion designer. She was obsessed with owning a Halston dress, but she never got a chance to before she died last year.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, pressing a hand to my heart. Mymom might drive me nuts, but losing her so young? I can’t imagine how much that must hurt.
Very clearly, an image crosses my mind. My mother’s closet, three vintage Halston wrap dresses hanging on velvet hangers. When was the last time I saw her wear one?
“Way to bring down the mood,” Klein says, and I gasp. Halston reaches over the bar and lands a medium-effort punch on the top of his arm. She’s looking at him in this annoyed but affectionate way, and I gather it means their relationship typically consists of all this teasing.
I climb off my stool and thumb behind myself. “I better get going. All those sleeping beauties might be awake by now.”
“Spa day?” Halston guesses.
