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I feel my phone vibrate inside my purse and I clutch it tighter, holding it against my thigh. “Don’t tell me Harold is a family name too,” I say, forcing myself not to think about who’s texting me. Or hoping that it’s Patrick.
“I wish,” Chase says, shaking his head gravely. “Gertrude—after my grandfather.”
I laugh, wishing I felt a flutter in my stomach when he presses his hand against the small of my back. “We’ll call him Gertie for short.”
In my purse, my phone vibrates again. And again. Loudly.
“Do you need to get that?” Chase says, genuine concern etched into his face. And what a face. Is it possible he’s gotten more good-looking since yesterday morning? His reddish-brown hair is tousled around his spectacular face. Brilliant blue eyes, framed with thick lashes, that crinkle at their corners when he smiles. Large, callused hands with paint-stained cuticles. He’s smart and funny. He talks to me like I’m an actual person. He’s the darling of Boston’s art scene for fuck’s sake. If I had a checklist titled PERFECT BOYFRIEND, he’d tick every damn box.
And it’s all completely wasted on me. Because Conner is right. The only reason I said yes to Chase was to get under Patrick’s skin.
“No,” I shake my head, strangling my purse in my grip. “It’s probably just my roommate.” As soon as I say it, my chest flushes so fast and hot, color creeps up my neck.
“The architect,” Chase says, reminding me that they met. “I wasn’t kidding yesterday—he’s making quite the name for himself. You guys known each other long?”
Something that feels like pride swells in my chest. “Going on four years,” I say with a shrug, trying to pretend that none of it mattered to me—the fact that Everett Chase was impressed by Patrick. My Patrick. “We’ve only been roommates for the past six-months though.”
New Roommate Rule: you don’t come unless I say so.
Like it was on a timer, my phone buzzes in my purse.
“Trust me?” Chase says, splitting a look between me and the food truck looming in front of us. Somehow, we’d made it to the front of the line without me noticing.
“With my life?” I say, smiling.
“Let’s save something for date #2,” he says, laughing. “With your food choice.”
I look at the menu painted on the side of the truck. It all looks good to me. “Yes.”
He nods, pressing his hand into to the small of my back again. “So, go grab us a table and check your phone.”
Leaving him to order, I hurry toward a rickety-looking card table flanked with a couple of folding chairs, digging my phone from my purse while I walk. Sitting down, I swipe at the screen. I have nearly a dozen unanswered texts.
None of them are from Patrick.
Tess: Declan is here.
Here can only be Gilroy’s. It’s the only place the two of them ever cross paths. Declan doesn’t even show his face at Con’s garage unless he knows Tess isn’t there.
Tess: Holy shit. I’m freaking out.
Tess: Did I die? Am I in hell?
Tess: I am trapped behind the bar
with him. I can’t deal.
But Declan left early, didn’t he? He had some kind of wedding appointment to take care of with Jessica. Why would he go back?
Tess: Do you think I’m small enough to
drown myself in the bar sink?
Tess: I hate you. While you’re off fancying
it up with some art douche, I’m dying.
Tess: I. AM. DYING.