Page 93 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

An hour later,our contingency plans for the park abandoned, James and I snuggled up on the couch in front of a British game show I’d never seen before. My week and the stress of the unknown had caught up with me and I was slumped against him, using him as a big, buff pillow, my mind happily glazed over as contestants jumped for joy only to groan minutes later when they lost whatever gains they’d made.

It felt like the story of my life right now, but in game show format.

I yawned, noting that out the window there was a faint rainbow, the earlier evening rain storm having eased off. I sat up when the episode was done, and James shook out a leg.

“Did your leg fall asleep?”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me to move?” I asked, feeling horrible that he’d literally allowed me to inhibit the circulation in a vital limb so I’d be comfortable.

He shrugged. “You looked cozy.”

I smoothed my palms down the thighs of my jeans. Cozy. That was how I felt here, at his parents’ house. I wasn’t even sure where they were at the moment. We’d taken over the place and made ourselves at home like a couple of teenagers. Was this homey or just plain weird?

Then again, my place was always swarming with roommates, and James’s basement suite was dark, had a permanent dampness, and lacked freshly baked cookies.

“James,” I scolded, standing up, “don’t let pretty girls walk all over you.”

He gave me a sly smile that made my stomach flip. “Some pretty women are more than welcome to.”

I choked on a laugh, not sure how to respond.

“I need to go home, eat, get ready for yet another new position tomorrow morning. Maybe Tamara will make me an omelette,” I said out loud, already making a mental inventory of our fridge and what she might share with me if I timed my homecoming well.

“No.”

“No?”

“Let’s order pizza. I don’t want to go home to my gloomy basement suite and eat supper alone. Let’s keep watching trashy TV and eat. My dad will be out at poker for a few more hours, and Mom said she’s checking in on Mrs. Laven after her walk.”

In other words, we’d have privacy.

“Sweet talker.” I dropped onto the couch beside him and opened one of my favourite apps for ordering in. “Where from?”

He was already ordering on his own phone, and I leaned over to see what he was adding to his cart.

“Whoa! Wait. You forgot the pineapple on that Hawaiian pizza.”

“No, I did not because it is not Hawaiian.”

“And shrimp? Ew. No. So wrong.”

He looked up at me as if an alien had taken over my body.

“No shrimp,” I demanded. “Add pineapple.”

“No, you animal.”

“Excuse me? I’m not eating that.”

“Pick off the shrimp.”

“No. Pick off the pineapple.”

He sighed and began tapping on his phone.

“What are you doing?”

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