“Apparently one of them. I’m still mapping the hierarchy. It’s complicated. There are wives, sisters, old ladies, a coffee shop, a wedding, and several men who look like they were assembled in a garage during a thunderstorm. And this guy—Mason… well never mind.”
“Mason?”
I turned the camera back to myself too quickly.
Lena’s eyes widened. “Oh. Mason.”
“No.”
“That was a yes face.”
“It was not.”
“You got red.”
“I’m holding hot coffee.”
“You are holding iced coffee.”
I looked down.
Damn it.
Lena sat up straighter, delighted in the way only a long-distance best friend could be when your denial started bleeding through the screen. “Tell me everything.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“Women who say that are always hiding either a body or a man.”
“Statistically, I object.”
“Emotionally, I’m right.”
I leaned against the counter and took a sip from my very much iced coffee. “He was the one who drove me to Santa Fe when Dolores died.”
“Dolores?”
“My truck.”
“Of course.”
“He fixed what he could, which was not enough. Then he took me on his motorcycle because my apartment keys were waiting and my truck had chosen martyrdom.”
Lena’s brows shot up. “You rode on the back of a motorcycle with a hot biker?”
“He is not hot.”
“Sienna.”
“He is structurally inconvenient.”
“Meaning hot.”
“Meaning built in a way that suggests protein intake and unresolved emotional damage.”
“So hot.”
I sighed and moved to the couch. “Fine. Objectively, yes. He has visual impact. That does not make him a good idea.”
