Page 59 of Wicked Fortune

I let out a low whistle, then raise my phone. “How much do you think The Hollywood Reporter would pay for this picture?”

He points kitchen tongs at me. “One, I don’t serve bacon to women who threaten my masculinity.”

My lips twitch. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure I have a granola bar somewhere in my car.”

“Two, the apron was my mother’s. I found it in a box after she died.”

I nod, as if considering that. “I didn’t know your mom, but I’ll take a wild guess that she’d have been on my side.”

From his scowl, I know I played that right.

“And three,” he says, moving the bacon to a paper-towel covered plate, “anyone who messes with my cooking vibe will find herself getting no more bacon at all.”

“I told you. Granola⁠—”

“And just to be clear, ‘bacon’ is a metaphor for sex.”

“I see,” I say, working very hard not to laugh. I slide my phone onto the counter. “The public doesn’t need to know everything,” I say. “But, damn, you look hot. The apron is a serious turn-on.”

And, frankly, it kind of is. He looks a little ridiculous, very adorable, and wildly sexy.

I’m not sure if that’s an empirical assessment or if my take means I’m falling hard.

I have a feeling it’s the latter.

“Over easy again? Or do you want to be wild and split a mushroom and cheddar omelet?”

I press a hand to my heart. “Sharing food. Better be careful. You’re going to get caught in my web.”

He meets my eyes. “Ah, Ariadne. I can’t think of a better trap to fall into.”

I smirk as I think of my Jenny mission. I should tell him the truth—surely this man couldn’t have hurt Jenny. More, he could help me find out what really happened.

But instead of telling him the truth, I smile, as if it’s all just silly banter. Because I’m standing too close now to really see the truth. And just like I told Bree—Matthew Holt is a man who could kill. He could, I think, kill to protect me.

And he could kill to protect himself, too.

It’s in him. That ruthlessness. But what would it take for him to hurt a woman like Jenny? Could he even do it at all?

That, I still don’t know.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a trick question.”

I jump, pulled from my reverie. “Oh. Sorry. I’m not quite awake.”

He points to the coffee maker. “Grab some elixir. So, yes to the omelet?”

I nod, then make a beeline for the coffee. I’m in the midst of pouring when his phone rings. Not his cell, but some hidden landline that is now chiming throughout the house.

He taps a button on his watch, then says, “Holt.”

“You have a meeting at eleven.” Lila’s voice filters into the room through speakers hidden somewhere above us. I presume you’ll be here in time to review the file.”

“And a good morning to you, too. It’s only nine-fifteen. I don’t think it’s time to send a helicopter for me just yet.”

“It’s my job to make sure your calendar runs smoothly, Matthew. Try not to make my job more difficult.”

“I’ll do my level best,” he says. “If there’s nothing else, my breakfast is getting cold.”