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She laughs and reaches for her drink.

I take mine too.

For several minutes, we sit quietly, music filling the space between us. Then Carla asks, "So what did you mean when you said Mason's been all over you?"

I groan.

Her expression immediately sours. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

She points an orange fingernail at me. "You made a noise."

"Because he's been driving me insane."

"What does he want?"

"Your number."

"No. Do not give it to him."

"I know!

Her eyes widen. "You didn't tell him what hotel I'm at, did you?"

"No."

"Good."

I wince. "But Jagger knows where you're staying."

Her eyes narrow. "Lainey!"

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking! I still have pregnancy brain!"

"You can't claim that anymore," she states.

"Why not?"

"Charlie's two months old. Pregnancy brain is over," she insists.

"Postpartum brain is a real thing! Look it up!" I say and tap her phone.

She rolls her eyes.

"You don't think he'd actually come to your hotel, do you?" I ask.

She scoffs. "You're talking about Mason Cartwright. Of course he'd come to my hotel. He'd show up all gorgeous and charming and try to sweet-talk me right out of my panties!"

"Well don't let him."

She huffs. "Take your little romp in the hay and multiply it by ten. That's the intensity of Mason when he wants something he can't have."

"Shit."

"Shit is right," she mutters, then finishes her drink. She leans over the corner of the booth and motions to the bartender for another round.

I cautiously say, "He wanted to talk to you."