“Yes,” she chuckles. “Considering how adamant you were about getting me to agree to another breakfast with you. I give you Tuesdays and you stand me up. What the fuck, dude?”

My hand tightens around the phone. The cloud of content encasing me as I listen to Brooke’s warm morning voice quickly rips away, along with any ounce of lethargy keeping me pinned to the bed.

It’s Tuesday. I’m supposed to meet Brooke for breakfast on Tuesdays.

“Fucking hell.” I throw myself out of bed and dart across the room to grab some clothes. “Brooke, fuck, I’m sorry. I was so bloody out of it last night after we talked, I forgot to change my alarm. I’m up now. Just hang on, all right? Did you order?”

I step into a pair of boxers and some running shorts, fisting a shirt as my eyes scan the floor for my shoes.

“No, I gave up our table.”

“What?”

She laughs again, and for the second time during this conversation I take notice of the outside world quietly buzzing around her through the line. She’s calling me after waiting for God knows how long inside that café. It’s twenty past seven now. If she didn’t arrive early, that’s twenty fucking minutes of her sitting alone, wondering where the fuck I am after I practically begged her for this.

Brilliant, mate. You’re such a fucking wanker.

“Mason, relax. Jesus. It’s not a big deal. I’m just giving you a hard time because it’s funny and I can. Go back to sleep.”

I step into my runners and pull my shirt on. “Fuck that. I’m on my way out now. I’ll meet you there.”

“Can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Wow,” she giggles. “Listen to you. You’re really pissed about this.”

“You gave me a day, Brooke. I want that day.”

My hand pushes through my hair as I step inside the bathroom. The light flickers on, pulsing against the white walls. I switch to speaker phone and hurriedly brush my teeth, glaring at my well-rested reflection.

She clears her throat. “I gave you breakfast, not a day. And it doesn’t matter. Dylan called me while I was waiting for you and asked if I could come in early to help her with something. So, you see? No big deal. I would’ve ended up cutting our time short anyway.”

I spit into the sink, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth.

She sounds fine, teasing me and brushing this fuck-up off as if it’s nothing. But I know this woman. I know she likes to hide behind a tough voice. I know you get more honesty from Brooke by slowing down and watching her, which is why I’m hesitant to believe her reassurance right now.

“Where are you?”

A quiet chime breaks through the phone. “The bakery.”

“Good.”

I move through the room and take to the stairs, walking across the empty studio. After unlocking the door, I jog across the street between traffic. Brooke says something, a greeting directed at Dylan, I assume. It sounds muted as if she’s moved her mouth away from the phone.

“Hey, Mason. I need to get off here.”

“All right,” I reply, ending the call and stepping inside the bakery.

“We’re not open yet,” a voice, not Brooke, yells from the back.

I move across the room and stop in the doorway opening up to the kitchen, leaning my shoulder against the frame.

Dylan notices me first, a coy smile twisting across her mouth. “Oh, hey. It’s you.”

Brooke raises her head from the large mixing bowl she’s staring down into.

She looks beautiful. Her hair is down, a tiny braid gathering some of it back and out of her round hazel eyes.

With parted red lips, she looks at the phone sitting on the large wood surface, then pins her gaze to me again.

“What are you doing, stalker?” she asks, her voice lifting sweetly. She shakes her head slowly through a tight lipped grin.

“I came to apologize, and to see if I can possibly take you to lunch today, instead of breakfast.” I straighten in the doorway and take a step closer, halting before I take another. “Is it okay that I’m back here?” I ask Dylan.

I’ve never stepped foot inside a professional kitchen before. I have no idea what the rules are for commoners here.

Dylan nods, her eyes shifting curiously between Brooke and myself. She smiles. “It’s fine.”

Brooke focuses on the containers of baking supplies in front of her as I loom closer. “I only get thirty minutes for lunch. That’s not enough time to go out anywhere. Sorry.”

“You can have an hour today.”

I grin at Dylan. “Brilliant.”

Brooke’s head snaps up. She looks astonished, maybe a bit annoyed. Her one hand closes into a fist against the wood while the other moves to her hip. “Are you kidding me right now? How many times have I asked you for an extended lunch, and never once were you keen on the idea. Just last week I wanted an additional fifteen minutes and you refused to budge.”

“So?” Dylan dumps some flour into a bowl and brushes her hands off. She stares evenly at Brooke. “This is my bakery, my fucking name is on it, and I don’t have to explain to you why I’m allowing this today.”

“Oh, I know exactly why you’re allowing it.” Brooke points a finger at my face. “That mouth right there. It makes people stupid.”

I keep my laugh muffled as I bring my arms across my chest, looking between the two of them.