Page 71 of You Owe Me

Not a splash.

Not a threat.

Just… sadness water.

“That’s for your sins,” she mumbles.

I stare at the wet patch darkening the bottom of my sweatpants. “You done?”

“No.”

She lobs another handful at me. This one arcs wide and hits the side of the sliding door.

“Missed,” I mutter.

She frowns at her hand like it betrayed her. “I need a ladle.”

“Don’t you dare weaponize my soup utensils.”

A beat passes. She exhales dramatically and drapes her arm over the duck like she’s fainting.

“I’m gonna live in here now,” she declares. “This is my new address. Ainsley James, Pool Suite 401. Mail can be forwarded to Duck.”

“Duck is deflating.”

She gasps, clutching the duck. “Lies. He’s just… emotionally decompressing.”

Fuck.

I rake a hand through my hair and look up at the sky, like maybe divine intervention will strike me down and end this before the apartment manager does.

Then she turns those glossy blue eyes on me. Lethal. Teary. Focused.

“You want to help me feel better?”

I pause. “That depends on what phase of the spiral we’re in.”

Her lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.

Oh, no.

She points at me. “Strip.”

I blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Take. Your. Shirt. Off.”

My mouth opens. Then closes.

She’s dead serious.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Science.”

I lift a brow.

“I’ve had a rough day,” she explains, like this is a medical emergency. “I’m emotionally compromised. And you’re… you. With your abs and your angry eyebrows and your tragic collarbones. I deserve a little visual serotonin.”

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