And now his eyes land on me, the other brow joining.
"There you go. That bite," he says, more impressed than angry.
I smirk coyly. "Guess you were right about that one. People don't change."
He smirks too. "Really?"
"Really."
He sets his cup down, sizing me up, and I can already see something devilish behind those lashes. "Then why did you start dressing so... linenish?"
I blink. Then again, at him this time.
"Excuse me?" Damn it. It comes out far too polite.
He shrugs. "What? You used to be trouble walking."
I hate that my cheeks heat. HATE it. I know what he's doing—letting me know he's watching, registering everything.
And maybe I do dress safer, but that's what you do when you marry someone respectable—you drop the damn hem.
I tilt my chin with pride. "Says the guy who thinks emotional range and wardrobe come in two shades of black."
His mouth quirks. "Won't deny it. Grey suits me, mood-wise. What's your excuse?"
I scoff and glance down—his leg has crept way closer to mine, almost touching me. I'm tempted to jab him with my heel—remind him what this granny's made of.
"Forget him. You look rude-level good," Mara cuts in and slides the lava cake she ordered toward me like an apology for her brother's bad demeanor.
I shake my head because a cake won't fix that.
She nudges the first bite toward him and asks him, "Did you get the last of your furniture over?"
He takes the spoon and immediately digs in. "Yeah, been on an assembling spree. I'm starting to think some pieces are from a different set."
Her lashes flutter up in a quick blink of annoyance. "I told you I'd help, but you're so stubborn."
He exhales like they already had this conversation too many times. "You should enjoy seeing your old friends, not wrestle with an Allen key."
Mara makes a face, but slides her hand into his—herthank-youorlove-you—but then pulls it away just as fast and her tone turns back to biting. "You shouldn't be doing it alone. When's Lisa back?"
I blink.
Lisa?
Who the hell's Lisa?
A friend? His new dog?Please, say it's a dog.
Ben stiffens, spine suddenly straighter. Mine follows—I don't know why—it just does.
"She's back," he says, voice deceptively calm. "Went to some conference."
"Are you kidding?" Mara's hand curls on the table, tight enough she might snap the tiny bows on her manicure. "She prioritizes that?!"
He shrugs, but every inch of him is taut. "It's fine. Their shampoo line slacked. Philip's on her ass about it. Whatever. At least I can play my guitar between breaks."
Lisa. Conference. Philip. Whatever.The question rips its way out of me, my voice two octaves too high to pass as laid-back. "Who is Lisa?"
