“Mary, darling. When you said you’d come by, I didn’t realize you meant with an entourage.”
“They’re friends. Protective friends.”
Jasper sets down his glass and tilts his head.
“Sugar tits. We’ve been best friends since you threw up on my light-up sneakers in third grade. I know your coffee order, your menstrual cycle, and the fact that you once cried so hard when your basil plant died that you held a funeral for it in your kitchen sink. You don’tdo‘protective friends.‘ So who the hell are these people and why do they look like Secret Service for someone actually important?”
I glance over my shoulder.
Three pairs of eyes meet mine—Lev pretending to examine a mannequin’s neckline, Boris pretending not to drink the champagne straight from the bottle, and Dima pretending he’s not about to body-check a sales associate for walking too close.
“Guys,” I murmur, forcing a tight smile. “Maybe give us a few minutes?”
Lev arches a brow. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
Boris lowers the glass, frowns. “We’ll be right outside.”
“Thank you,” I say, too sweetly, the universal female code forplease stop making this weirder than it already is.
They move—slowly, reluctantly—until the door shuts behind them. The boutique goes quiet again, humming with faint jazz and expensive perfume.
Jasper’s watching me the whole time. Arms folded. The corner of his mouth twitches.
Then, with the same energy he’d use to announce a scandal at brunch, he says, “Okay. Level with me.”
I blink. “About?”
He takes one deliberate step closer. “You’re either in a cult, on the run, or you secretly married someone rich and terrifying.” He tilts his head. “Please say it’s the last one. I could use a yacht.”
“Jas—”
“No, no.” He holds up a manicured finger. “You walk in here with three men who look like they smuggle diamonds in their luggage, call themfriends,and expect me not to ask questions? Honey, I love you, but I’m nosy and deeply unemployed before noon.”
I groan, rubbing my temples. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, I adore that word.” He circles me, examining me the way he does a hemline. “Complicated means there’s a story. So, start at the beginning. Who’s the ringleader? Blondie? Tall, dark, and brooding? Or the one who looks like he codes for the CIA?”
“None of them.”
Jasper gasps theatrically. “Youdidmarry someone, didn’t you?” His hand flies to his chest. “Tell me I at least get to be maid ofhonor. Wait… Don’t tell me it was an arranged situation. Mary Sullivan, did you marry for—oh, my God—protection?”
My silence answers for me.
Jasper’s grin fades. “Oh, holy Prada.”
I sink onto the nearest velvet bench, staring at my hands.
“It’s not what it sounds like.”
“Then make it sound better.”
“I can’t.”
He exhales, long and low. The teasing leaves his face, replaced by quiet worry. “Mary… who are these men, really?”
I swallow hard. “They’re—”
