Page 25 of Hexed
“Oh,” I reply, glancing at Uncle T and then back. “This and that. Mainly, I run a restaurant for Uncle T, but I’m his go-to girl.” I force a smile.
Aria laughs, and I glower at her, feeling every inch the teenager I was when she used to live here.
Ugh, Ican’t standhow she makes me feel. “Something funny?”
“Not theLair,” she guesses.
I tilt my head. “Actually, that’s exactly what it is.”
She harrumphs and lifts her shoulders in a careless way. “Guess I’m not surprised you’re back where your momma used to run herself ragged. You can take the girl out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the girl.”
Enzo cuts a sharp glare at Aria. “Watch your mouth. What’s wrong with you?”
Her jabs hit where they’re supposed to, but like I’ve always done with her, I don’t let it show. “I’m thrilled you’re back, Aria.” I grin widely. “It will be sofungetting to know each other again.”
Her face flashes with confusion.
Footsteps from the hallway interrupt the moment, and for the first time all night, a genuine smile takes over my face.
“Fisher,” I say as he comes into view.
Fisher Engle is larger than life, at least in personality. He’s not physically bulky, but he’s tall and has a wiry frame. His height isn’t what sets him apart, though. It’s that bright bluemohawk of his and the tattoos that cover almost every inch of his skin, from his fingertips to his neck.
To me, he’s the best. A ride or die who’s more like a brother than a friend.
Aria stiffens in her seat when Fisher walks around the large dining table and leans down to kiss my cheek. “Short Stack.”
My smile grows. “Hey, Gup.”
“Sorry I’m late,” he says loudly, plopping in the chair next to me.
“Hello, Fisher,” Uncle T says dryly.
“Daddy T,” he replies, ignoring the obvious tension streaming from across the table. “Aria, long time.”
“Fisher,” Aria greets, her voice stiff. “Not long enough.”
His smile widens, but I can tell it’s heavy and dripping with condescension. There’s a lot of history between them, some of which even I don’t know.
“You’re looking as beautiful as ever,” he says. “That dress on you is fantastic. I justlovehow you don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
The air grows still, a heavy pause making everyone visibly uncomfortable, but Fisher doesn’t mind. He lives to put people on edge. It’s part of why we get along so well. Besides, he has years of hurt from Aria, and when someone hides that kind of pain for so long, the ache turns bitter.
He reaches to the center of the table and grabs a croissant from the basket before leaning back in his chair and popping a piece into his mouth.
I bask in Aria’s discomfort.
Fisher’s brows rise. “Ran off to New York and lost your accent, I see. So the country bumpkincanbecome a city girl.”
“Some of us have aspirations besides wasting our entire life in Atlantic Cove, dealing drugs and being degenerates,” she bites out.
Fisher chuckles, throwing his arm around the back of my chair. “Don’t be a hater.”
Suddenly, the energy shifts, tingles of awareness prodding at my spine, and I know without looking that Enzo is staring at me. Again. I glance over, and his eyes narrow with a frosty glare that douses me like ice.
What’s his problem?
“And you are?” Fisher homes in on Enzo, and that makes me nervous.
