“I thought we were doing Mexican,” said Everett.
“The bride-to-be wanted hibachi,” explained Brandon as he wheeled into the parking lot of the local Japanese steakhouse. “When she surfaces from an edit, she eats like a stevedore. I’ve learned not to argue.”
From the passenger seat, Isabelle shot him an affectionate look. “You’re just weirded out by the fact that I can out eat you.”
“Well, you’re half my size,” he remarked. “I don’t know where you put it.”
The pair continued their teasing banter all the way inside. Everett followed, grinning. He liked the way they were together, liked what they brought out in each other.
Brandon asked for a table for three. As they followed the hostess, Everett’s gaze swept the restaurant, automatically checking for that blonde hair, as had beco
