Page 6 of True Hearts

My phone goes off in my purse. I reach in and pull it out to check.

“We’ll exit that way to be safe,” Graham tells him as I see the text. It’s a picture of Graham holding my hand and leading me into The Plate.

“Too late.” I show him my phone. Word sure does travel fast.

ChapterFive

GRAHAM

“Had to let them in. Couldn’t have them making a ruckus in the front of house,” Brooks had said as the four bodyguards shuffled into the kitchen.

Despite the silence from the six of us, Brooks kicked us all out after fifteen minutes. “Too much bad energy” was his excuse. I don’t blame him. In that short time, a steak had caught on fire, two plates were dropped, and someone burned a finger. If we had stayed longer, there might have been a death or two, and that would be on top of Brooks strangling me. That would have put a damper on poker night.

“Your phone’s still ringing.” I cast a glance toward the black quilted bag tucked against Luna’s side. I need to sneak a photo of it to send to my accountant so that he can order a dozen of them. I wonder if I can give them all to Luna in one go or if I should parcel them out?

“I need to block that number,” she mutters to the window. Since we left the restaurant, she’s been preoccupied. Her thoughts are on Montclair when they should be on me. Based on my extensive experience with women—and by extensive I mean my mother and sister—they like true crime documentaries, kittens, babies, and afternoon tea. Also mangos. Mom and Brenda, my sister, eat a fuckton of those things to the point the chef put in a request for an automated mango slicing machine. I looked into that and told him just to hire someone to cut mangos for him because otherwise we’d need to add an eight foot addition to the kitchen, and I didn’t think zoning would go for that.

It’s way past the afternoon, but our private chef could whip up some finger sandwiches, which is what I think the girls like about those tea dates. The little food and the stacked plates are something I could provide. I pull out my phone to send a text but check in with Luna first. “Still hungry, right?”

How could she not be? Brooks hadn’t even given us an amuse-bouche before booting us to the curb.

“Not really. Could you drop me off at home?”

No.

“Actually, no, I don’t want to go home. Not with all that stuff there. I need to see Michael.” She finally turns to face me. “Where would he go after the party? Home?”

“No idea.” Keeping tabs on someone like Michael Montclair would be the kind of punishment the board would impose if the Montclairs had ever beat my earnings sheet, which never happened, but the fear of something like that kept me burning the candle at both ends. What’s more unsettling is that Luna doesn’t know.

“I can see on your face that it’s pitiful that I don’t know where he’d be since we’re engaged, but the whole time I told myself that this was good because we didn’t live in each other’s pockets. We had an adult relationship, which meant I got to hang out with my girlfriends whenever I felt like it, and he got to do his thing without my interference. We didn’t look at each other’s phones. We didn’t track each other’s locations. I was really proud of it.” Her words come rapid-fire as if they leave a bitter taste on her tongue that she can’t bear to have in her mouth for more than a second.

“It’s not pitiful to want to trust someone.” Ruining Montclair won’t be enough. I’m going to have to murder him.

“There’s not like a billionaire’s club or something where only really rich people hang out?”

“Brooks’ The Plate?”

“Other than that?”

“Isn’t he calling you?”

“I want to look him in the face when I confront him, and I don’t want to give him time to prepare some kind of—” She chews on her lower lip. Before she’d said she was unsure if she was breaking up with him. That he deserved a chance to be heard. The ring I’d taken off her finger burns in my pocket.

“First, you need tea.”

“Tea?”

“Yeah, my sister and mom love these afternoon teas. I think they’ve gone to every single hotel in the city for it. Their favorite place is upstate in some woman’s cottage, but I don’t think she’s open at this time of day.” It’s getting late, and afternoon tea is, well, by definition, an afternoon thing. “Our chef can make those little cucumber sandwiches, though.”

“You have a personal chef?”

I tug on my tie. This feels like a potential landmine. “Not me, personally, but I have eaten food prepared by this person.”

Surely the Montclairs have one, too. But…perhaps she’s never been to the Montclairs’. Is that possible?

“I’m not hungry anymore. I need to talk to Michael and get this all sorted out.”

“Right. Let me ask the FBI boys.” I lower the divider between the front and rear seats and scoot forward. “You.” I point to the bodyguard sitting on the passenger side. “You’re former FBI, right?”

---