“It’s Harper,” she said, correcting Skylar.
Skylar stepped to the side where the drink sat perched on the counter, waiting to be picked up. “Same difference. Do you want your coffee or not?”
Another barista worked on my drink while Harper stood, arms folded across her chest.
“You need to make me another latte,” Harper said. She unfolded her arms long enough to slide her sunglasses back up as they began to slip down her face.
“I don’t need to do anything, Ma’am,” Skylar said. She turned and faced the register. “Next!”
The barista preparing my coffee headed over with the piping hot liquid and secured a lid to the cup. “Lincoln.”
Harper snatched the coffee before I could get my hands on it. “I’m going to be late.”
She stole my drink and stormed out of the shop, hurrying to her car.
“I hope she likes it black,” I muttered under my breath—what a perfect way to start my morning.
I should have stayed in bed.
* * *
I picked up lunch and drove over to Mason’s house to check up on him. It’d been a few weeks since he’d been shot by the mafia protecting his high school sweetheart, Hazel Agron.
Arriving at his house, before I could even lift my hand to the door, Hazel pounced. She was faster than their dog, Bear, who they’d adopted after Mason’s uncle passed.
Hazel yanked open the door and threw her arms around me. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered into my ear.
“Of course. I brought lunch,” I said, and lifted the bag of Chinese food takeout to show what I’d fetched.
Hazel ushered me inside Mason’s house and shut the door.
I handed over the bag of food while I shucked off my coat and boots.
“Smells good,” Mason said with a grunt as he pushed himself up from the sofa. “What’d you bring?”
“Orange Beef, Sesame Chicken, Sweet and Sour Shrimp, Mongolia Beef, and a few appetizers. I wasn’t sure what everyone wanted, so I tried to get a variety,” I said.
I hadn’t wanted to come empty-handed, and Hazel had been busy looking after Mason. She deserved a meal off from cooking.
“I’m famished,” Mason said.
He sluggishly ambled toward the table, the injury of two bullets getting the better of him.
“How are the restaurant repairs coming?” Mason asked.
Hazel unveiled the contents of the brown paper bag with all the dishes while I rummaged through the drawers for silverware. There were already paper plates on the table and chopsticks along with plasticware for eating.
“Slow and practically non-existent,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I’d visited Mason over the years enough to have memorized not only the layout but also where he kept everything in the cabinets.
“Water is good.”
I grabbed three glasses from the cabinet and filled each of them with water. “How have you been feeling?” I asked, turning to face Mason but still keeping an eye on the glass so that I didn’t make a mess.
“Tired, sore, I feel like I’ve been shot, twice.” Mason laughed and sat down with a gruffness that I hadn’t seen cross his face in the past.
He winced, trying to hide his obvious discomfort. “I’m feeling better already and anxious to get back to business.”