Page 40 of Rapunzel Is Losing It

“Music?”

“Yes, right in the bottom here.” He turned the pot over to twist the music box handle round and round. “It goes without saying that you shouldn’t soak it in water or put it in the dishwasher.”

“Sure.” I waited for the tune to play. Tea for two. Doris Day had crooned the song for me dozens of times as I had memorized the melody, so I’d be able to recognize it.

The teapot did start playing the correct melody, but it was distorted. Almost like it was playing underwater.

“It’s too slow,” I said.

“Oh yes, these music boxes get a little pesky with age. Of course, being built into dishware doesn’t help, does it? Who bothers to do maintenance on their teapots?”

He was talking too much for a straightforward transaction. “Can you fix it?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“I don’t care if it costs extra.”

“Hmm.” He scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes at me. “It will take me a few days. Longer if I need to install a new spring.”

“I’ll pay half now, half when it’s fixed, plus the repair cost.”

He stopped talking as much when I tossed the bills on the counter. “Of course. I will give you a call when it’s ready.”

That was Cordelia’s present sorted. Next on the list was making sure that yesterday’s incident with that video guy hadn’t changed her actual birthday plans. She’d been making strides with having people in the house, and I was not going to be the reason she regretted it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“What did you do?”My house had exploded. Or at least the furniture had. Not literally. It just looked like one of my midnight urges to rearrange the living room, only to run out of steam at 1am when everything was peak messy.

Except, I had spent all day in my office, perfectly sealed off. I had spent the entire rest of the week there, wonderfully alone with my work, ignoring every ping I got from Amani about the video campaign. So, unless I was suffering some strange form of amnesia, the chairs in the hallway weren’t my fault. Victor, however, stood on the armchair in the living room, arms crossed in front of the chest.

“The floor is lava.”

“Excuse me?”

“The floor is lava!” He pointed at the haphazard furniture. “Get on the damn chair, Cordelia.”

“Don’t yell at me,” I shrieked at this loud tone, but I still climbed onto the chair.

“The game is simple.”

“Game?” I laughed and raised my brows at Victor across the expanse of the hallway and the living room, nothing but air between us.

“You said no more chess.”

“We can play chess if you want.”

“The game is simple,” he started again, because apparently our weekly chess match had just turned into a round ofthe floor is lava,“you just have to complete three stations to get to the ice cream. You are only allowed to step down when you reach each station. If your feet touch the ground on your way, you lose an ice cream topping.”

Dangling ice cream in front of me was cruel. He knew I’d play for a bowl of rocky road with gummy bears, sprinkles and whipped cream.

I opened and closed my mouth, unsure of what to say, but my eyes were already roaming the hallway, trying to figure out where else I could step. The small bench that usually stood next to the coat rack was conveniently placed five feet away from me, taking me closer to the living room, where more chairs cluttered the room and the sofa had been turned 90 degrees. He’d been busy.

“Okay. Fine. What are the stations?”

Victor pointed at the drinks cart from the kitchen that had conveniently found its way to the corner of the sitting room. “The cocktail bar. Make up your own drink with at least three ingredients and it has to taste good.”

“I can do that.”

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