"It's just coffee?—"
"It's not JUST coffee!" She grabs my shoulders. "Harper. He bought you a French press. After you complained about his espresso machine."
"So?"
"So that's a love language!"
"It's a practical solution to a minor inconvenience."
"It's THOUGHTFUL." Amelia looks at Margot. "Tell her."
Margot is studying me with her serious Mom face. "Harper. When did you complain about the espresso machine?"
"I don't know. A few days ago? We were in the kitchen and I mentioned that I missed regular coffee."
"And he remembered."
"Yes, but?—"
My phone buzzes again.
VICTOR KADE: Did you find it?
My hands are shaking slightly as I type.
ME: Yes. You didn't have to do that.
VICTOR KADE: I know.
ME: Thank you.
VICTOR KADE: You're welcome. See you later tonight. Don't stay out too late.
ME: Is that an order?
VICTOR KADE: It's your boss not wanting you to ruin a productive morning tomorrow by neglecting your sleep health tonight.
ME: That's the most Victor Kade thing you've ever said.
VICTOR KADE: I'm consistent.
I set down my phone and find both sisters watching me with identical "I told you so" expressions.
"Don't," I warn.
"We're not saying anything," Margot says.
"Your faces are saying everything."
"Our faces are neutral."
"Your faces are judging me."
Amelia grins. "Maybe a little."
I pick up my crochet hook and focus very hard on the blanket, trying to ignore the French press sitting next to me like evidence of something I'm not ready to name.
I don't honor those looks with a response. Because I can't respond.
