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Of course, Beverly had been admired before. No, she thought. That wasn’t true. Darby was the one who’d attracted attention. The angelic-looking blonde had been revered by strangers. But most of those people had turned on her later.

Last week, the tabloids had reported that Darby Quinn was dead. That she’d committed suicide, even though her body hadn’t been found. This week, she’d been spotted on a beach in Cancun.

Beverly cracked an egg into the bowl, wondering if Elvis had been sighted there, too. Darby had always identified with Elvis. Not because of his fame, but because he had a twin brother who’d died at birth. Dead or alive, a twin was a twin- part of yourself that stayed with you forever. Darby knew that better than anyone.

“Are you focusing on the pancakes?” Mason asked.

She looked up at him. “What?”

“You seem so intense.” He left his seat and walked toward her, stopping when he was only inches away.

She tried to relax, but his sudden proximity was creating topsy-turvy sensations. “You’ve been staring at me.”

He remained close, much too close. “I can’t help it. I’m obsessed with you.”

The way the public was obsessed with celebrities? She gazed into his eyes, praying that he understood the consequences, the ache that came with obsession. “That’s not a safe word, Mason.”

“I know, but there’s nothing safe about the way I feel.” She struggled for an appropriate response. She’d never experienced anyone like him. “You’re so honest all the time.”

“What’s there to lie about? I’m an open book.”

So was Darby. Literally, she thought. Only the bestselling biography had been a deception, a horrible, painful facade. But worse yet was the author of the book. The woman who’d penned all those damaging words.

“I won’t pressure you, Beverly.”

She sucked in a barely controlled breath. “About what?” “About your secrets.”

“Thank you,” she said, even though she knew that his patience would only take him so far. Clearing her mind, she glanced at the half-stirred batter. “I need to finish this.”

Twenty minutes later, the pancakes were done, along with a side of fried eggs and ham.

Mason set the table, where the lilac roses he’d given her created a centerpiece. When he discovered her ancient plates, he tilted his head. “Is everything you have old?”

She watched him examine the slightly chipped china. “I like things that survive the test of time. Antiques, collectibles, thrift-store treasures.”

“Like your car. It’s vintage, too.”

She brought the food to the table. “Speaking of cars, when are you going to get an estimate?”

“Soon, but I don’t want you to pay for it.” He filled their glasses with juice. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“But I hit you. I damaged your truck.”

“I know.” He held out her chair for her. “But that accident changed something inside me.”

She took the proffered seat, felt her heart stumble. “Because of us?”

He nodded. “Because we’re going to be together.” He dug into his pocket and removed a glittering array of condoms, scattering them around the flowers. “Or I hope we are.”

Beverly gazed at the foil packets. Last night she’d wondered if Mason had been teasing her. But now she knew he wasn’t.

This was his way of asking her to make love with him.

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