“Did I lose you?” Quint asked.
“What? Oh, no. I was umm…trying to figure out who the caller is. No one has my home number other than you and Amanda.” As he spoke, he dished some noodles onto his plate, passed the bowl to Quint, then topped his with the stroganoff.
“No one?” Quint asked, obviously surprised as he, too, filled his plate, adding salad on the side.
“Well, my brother does, of course, but he’d have shown up on the ID. Other than that, though, when someone wants my number, I give them the one for the gallery since Amanda handles the business end of things.”
“Even someone like Rivera?”
“I never give out my number to men I meet at the clubs.”
“That’s good to know. Safer that way. Although anyone who came home with you, like Rivera, could get the number off the phone.”
“I suppose.” Clay finally took a bite of his dinner, wanting to get off the subject of the phone calls for now. “This didn’t turn out too bad.”