Page 132 of Securing the Pucking Rebound
“Well, good morning to you, too,” I tease.
“Yeah, yeah. You can’t message me to inform me that Calvin was waiting in your parking garage for you to return and then ghost me afterward. That is not best-friend behavior.”
I laugh as the server comes over for our drink order. Usually, I’d stick to non-alcoholic drinks to keep pregnant Bea company, but this morning, knowing all the questions that are going to be fired at me, I need more.
“Mimosa, please,” I say, aware that Bea’s laughing at me from across the table.
“Sienna,” she prompts the moment we’re alone again.
“I’m starving,” I say, reaching for the menu. “What are you hav—hey,” I complain when she snatches it from my fingers.
“Nice try. Spill, Wentworth.”
“Oh, I’m getting second-named now.”
“Yes, yes, you are. Haven’t you heard that you shouldn’t rile up a pregnant woman? It’s not good for the baby.”
“That line might work on Rett, but it won’t fly with me.”
She rolls her eyes, but thankfully releases the menu.
Calvin’s lasagna was delicious, but I think I might have burned it off after.
Deciding on avocado toast with poached eggs and a side of fresh fruit, I slide the menu away and focus on my impatient friend.
“We had a really nice night, thank you for asking.”
She narrows her eyes, and I burst out laughing.
“Fine. He ran me a bath, and then went to his apartment to get a lasagna he’d made earlier. When I got out, my apartment looked like date heaven. He’d bought flowers, candles, and wine. It was pretty incredible.”
“Calvin? Calvin Keller cooked you a lasagna? Bought you flowers? Lit candles?”
“Uh-huh,” I agree. Just a few weeks ago, I’d have thought it was impossible as well. But I’ve recently learned so much about the enigma that is Calvin Keller, and, well, let’s just say he is nothing like the media portrays him. “Wow.”
“We spent the night watching TV. It was nice.”
Her brows lift. “You spent the rest of the night watching TV?” she echoes.
“Yep. A documentary and then some home reno shows.”
“Right. And then what? He just went home?”
“Something like that.”
The server chooses that moment to come over to deliver our drinks and take our food order.
Bea’s eyes burn into me as the server leaves, and I take a long sip of my mimosa.
“Spill, Sienna.”
“Fine,” I say, throwing my hands up dramatically. “There might have been some kissing and stuff.”
A wide smile lights up Bea’s face.
“I knew it.”
“Then why did you need me to tell you?” I tease.
