“Are you seriously fucking kidding me.”
Rebecca froze. And then she turned two colors, white then red, both of them furious. “I...what... you...”
Britt patiently recited, “He said, ‘Are you seriously fu—’”
“I heard you,” Rebecca said testily.
“You did ask her, Rebecca,” J. T. said. Both J. T. and Franco were wide-eyed with glee and holding their breath.
“Giorgio is a little bit temperamental,” Britt said serenely. “All artists are. You’re welcome to choose something else.”
They stared at each other.
“I think I’ll choose to eat somewhere else,” Rebecca said tersely.
“Excellentchoice,” Britt purred, wondering why Rebecca Corday didn’t employ professional tasters like a despot king who feared poisoning. She was so thoroughly unpleasant.
Rebecca slipped out of her chair and stalked out of the Misty Cat, leaving a trail of wide eyes in her wake.
And Britt watched her go and was reminded that oh yes, indeed, she did love to win.
The sudden absolute silence made Franco look up from his phone, which is where he’d retreated while this was going on. Probably this nastiness was all par for the course in Hollywood.
“Youand Becks can go,” he said to J. T. “I’m sticking around for my eggs Benedict.”
J. T. ignored him. “Britt,” J. T. said with what sounded like extreme patience “May I have a word?”
She balked. And then: “I can give you one minute. I have a job to do.”
He’d already scoped out a nook on the other side of the counter behind the row of napkin holders and he beckoned her over here.
“I want you to know that I didn’t want to bring her in here, Britt. I would never do that. It wasnotmy idea.”
“That’s okay, J. T.,” she said serenely. “Bring her anywhere you want. I don’t care what you do or who you do it with. Go wherever you want. Do whatever you want.”
He frowned. “What’s the matter with your voice? You drink your breakfast?”
She sucked in an impatient breath. “Whatareyou doing here?”
“I followed Franco in here because he was... determined to meet you. And I know him pretty well. ”
“God. The two of you are children.”
“Yep,” J. T. admitted grimly.
“You should know he asked me out,” she added.
J. T. whirled on Franco. “Bastard, Iknew—”
Franco was scrolling through his e-mails on his phone and leisurely chewing an English muffin Sherrie had apparently just brought to him. He must have felt the waves of heat from J. T.’s glare. He looked up and gave a little wave.
She was aware that pretty much everyone in the diner was watching them, if not overtly, then covertly, in the reflections in the sides of napkin holders and the backs of spoons and the like.
“I’m not going to go out with him. I don’t want to go out with him. Do you really think I’m that fickle? Do you really think I can just behadthat easily by any gorgeous man?” She was aware her voice was rising.
He closed his eyes briefly. He drew in a breath that made it sound like he was trying to suck patience from the air. “No,” he said, evenly. “No, sweetheart. I know you can’t just be had. For God’s sake.” His voice almost cracked there. “I know how lucky I’ve been.”
Oh, God. That word. It threatened to burn away the lovely, numbing righteous fog of anger.
