“Are you sisters?” I ask them.
They don’t pause to share any glances before both staring at me as though they’ve never seen my level of idiocy in their lives.
To be fair, it’s a rather ignorant question.
They look nothing alike. Bea’s light brown curls that keep escaping her sloppy bun, and her bright green eyes, the twin dimples in her cheeks, and her long nose and wide pink lips are near polar opposites to Daphne’s straight, multi-hued dark hair, brown eyes, button nose, and cupid’s bow lips, which are stained a deep burgundy. Bea’s at least two inches taller, though I have no idea what shoes either are wearing, which could clearly change their heights, but Daphne has a smaller frame to Bea’s perfect curves.
She’s far from a waif, but she’s also noticeably smaller than Bea.
“No,” they answer together.
My security man clears his throat.
I know that throat clear.
It means it’s time to move on.
“I truly am sorry for your inconvenience, Ms. Best,” I say. “I’ll monitor the boys better to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”
“Whereareyour children, Mr. Luckwood?”
“I requested my other two security agents sit on them until I return. I’m sure they’ve not caused any more mayhem.”
I smile at her again.
She doesn’t return the expression, so I clear my throat. “Ah, they’re with their mother. She picked them up over their loud protests that I didn’t understand at the time—soon before you arrived.”
“Hope you took their credit card away,” Daphne murmurs.
“Of course. Yes. And Lana’s a far better parent than I am. I’m certain they’ll cause no more mischief while with her.”
Ah, there it is. More silent communication between the two women.
I clear my throat again. “I’ll also inform the staff that you’re welcome to call round.”
Bea’s brows knit together. “Generous as that offer might be, it’s unnecessary.”
Daphne leans on the windowsill. “Or are you asking her on a date?”
“I—” I start, then realize I have perhaps made a miscalculation, but also—a date wouldn’t be a bad idea. My head is absolutely spinning with ideas for a new pilot to show the studio after this encounter. “No. Merely that if it happens again?—”
“It won’t,” Bea says.
“She’s a little over men right now,” Daphne says in a stage whisper. “Even famous British single dads with the world’s most popular TV show. Or possibly especially famous British single dads who play total dicks on that popular TV show.”
A murmur breaks out behind me. Daphne straightens and makes ayou’re next, come on upgesture. “Secret menu onlytoday, and it’s all on the house. Fish on a stick? It’ll be ready in just a few minutes. We’re still heating the fryers.”
Fishon a stick?
That’s odd.
I start to ask if I could have one, but then I hear it.
“Is that Simon Luckwood?” someone whispers behind me.
“Oh my god. It’s Peter Jones.”
“That can’t be Peter Jones. What’s he doing here?”
