Page 32 of Love Sick

“Julian, I know you’re in there. I see your truck in the parking lot.”

I sigh. Definitely Grace. Could this night get worse? “Hold up, all right?”

Taking my time to wash and dry my hands, I bask in the impatience pouring in from the other side of the door. She’s probably tapping her judgy little foot.

I swing the door open, letting in a gust of cold November air. “Yes?”

Her unholy amounts of hair are knotted at her crown, but escaped tendrils stick to her sweaty face. A smudge of white powder mars one cheek, and she’s wearing a stained apron that says Kiss the Cook. My gaze darts at once to the freckle on her lip before landing on her eyes.

A frantic gleam sparkles there, and she looks…deranged. Her face lights up—the first happy smile she’s ever directed at me. “Thank god. Do you have any sugar?”

“Um. No.”

The smile melts, and her body wilts. “No? What do you use for your coffee?”

“I drink it black.”

“God!” She stomps her foot as a snarl gathers in her throat. “Could you be any more of a Death Eater?”

I lean against the doorjamb. “I bet I could if I tried. You’re more unpleasant than normal. Why do you need sugar?”

“For the cupcakes, Julian. Hello? Friendsgiving is tomorrow. You’re supposed to bring something, too.”

“I’m bringing beer.”

The light returns to her expression. “Will you bring a good IPA?”

“I’m only bringing stouts. It’sThanksgiving.” I say this last like she’s an idiot for assuming anyone would want an IPA at such a sacred event, even though IPAs are the best and everybody knows it.

She glares and crosses her arms, squeezing her breasts together.

Ugh. Don’t look, Julian. Why are you always looking?

That shirt-apron combo is low-cut despite the forty-degree temperature. I bet her nipples are hard…

Stop!

What the hell is wrong with me?

“You’re like an evil villain, Julian. Make sure you say ‘hi’ to Thanos for me at the next world-destruction planning sesh.” She spins and heads toward the stairs, leaving me to stare at the flour powdering her ass.

“Oh, you’d definitely get blipped,” I mutter under my breath, then groan because I know what I’m about to do.

Rubbing my face, I grab my keys. I need to pick up the beer, anyway. What’s two extra minutes to grab sugar? At the grocery store, the temptation to buy only stouts pulls at my sense of justice, but I grab a case of my favorite IPA before heading to the register. I tell myself it’s for me, but stuck deep in the contest of Who-Hates-Who-More?, I want to trip her up, do something nice to throw her off her game.

I set the bag of granulated sugar at her doorstep, snap a picture and walk away. Back in my apartment, I send it to her, captioned, “Found this. Made me think of you.”

No one witnesses my diabolical smile as the tides shift in my favor.

Her reply is swift—a picture of a coffee cup shaped like Scar fromThe Lion King. “Found this. Made me think of you.”

* * *

Alesha lives in a tiny bungalow about fifteen minutes from my apartment. In true Alesha fashion, she’s styled it with colorful eclectic furniture and abstract art. In normal circumstances, the place reeks of patchouli, but as I step through the door, the scents of turkey and sage overpower it. Her two cats emerge from the darkness of the hallway to stare at me, eyes glowing.

Last to arrive, I make my way through the living room and enter a flurry of chaos. Alesha throws me a harried greeting as she bustles in the cramped kitchen, where every inch of granite has disappeared under dishes, spices and condiments. Raven and Kai are setting the dining table. Grace stands to the side, holding stacked Tupperware full of cupcakes.

I sneak around Alesha to set the beer in the fridge. “Can I help?”

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