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“That’s new,” I say. “But yeah. Brownies the other night. Pumpkin bars last night.”

Fuck those were good.

“What did the note say?” Astrid asks.

“Oh just something…” Dammit, I can’t think fast enough.

“Something sexy?” Astrid asks, giving me a little grin.

I nod. “Kind of.”

Her husband is sitting right next to her and hasn’t said much. It’s probably because he is watching her every move like an obsessed stalker himself.

Astrid eats a shrimp, frowns, fans her mouth as if it’s too hot, and he hands her the milkshake sitting in front of her. She takes a quick sip before leaning over and kissing his cheek.

He smiles a dopey smile no thirty-something billionaire who is also technically a prince should ever smile.

“What was it?” Astrid asks.

Still watching Declan watch Astrid, I shake my head. “I think sexy is in the eye of the beholder,” I say.

She looks from me to Declan, back to me, and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell us.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“So who are you voting for?” Harley Delaune, Nora’s grandfather and another of my roommate’s close friends, comes up to our table and asks Patty.

She sighs. “I don’t know now. It’s a tough decision. They both have such great arguments for why their stalker is the best.

In any other town, it would be ridiculous that we’re voting on which of two stalkers is the best and doing it by putting money in mason jars on the front counter at the local diner.

But in Rebel, this is just a typical Wednesday night.

“How about I vote for one, and you vote for the other. Then neither will feel bad,” Harley says.

“You might as well just not vote at all,” Beckett protests.

Harley looks at the dollar in his hand, then shrugs and tucks it back into his pocket. “You’ve got a point.”

Everyone laughs, and conversation continues, but suddenly all the sound around me fades and my vision tunnels as someone steps into the coffee shop.

Finally.

I’ve been wondering where she’s been, but I can’t ask. Because she is Beckett’s little sister, and he's specifically told me to stay away from her, which I promised to do.

So I make do with what I overhear and with hoping others will ask the questions I want to. Like, how is her mild head cold? Did she like the movie she and the girls watched Saturday night? And where the hell has she been tonight?

None of that’s appropriate from her brother’s hockey teammate, even if we don’t want to punch each other constantly anymore.

I only want to punch him every third time we’re together now, and it’s always because he’s interrupted, talked over, dismissed, or ignored Sutton.

Sutton sees us all across the room and starts toward us, Andi right behind her. But before they are even through the coffee-shop half of the building and into the bar half, where we’re sitting, Brewser steps in front of her.

“I need to talk to you,” I hear him tell her.

Her eyes widen, but she agrees.

He takes her hand and heads toward the restrooms at the back of the coffee shop. Which means completely across the building from where I’m at.