Page 15 of Ice Darling
Sasha Davenport: Matchmaking.
Chapter Six
Cordelia
Two pairs of eyes drill into me the moment I park my bike at the outdoor garage. I pretend not to notice and take my helmet off with careful movements.
Slow and steady.
My head feels like a pack of monkeys got loose from the circus and turned my skull into their own playground.
Alcohol and I are never going to be friends.
Squinting against the sunlight, I lift a gloved hand and swing my legs off the bike.
“Morning,” I grunt and set my helmet on the table next to the cooler filled with pink lemonade. Rebel’s boyfriend keeps it stocked just for her.
“Good morning to you too,” April says, abandoning her diagnostic scanner on the edge of the car’s open hood.
Rebel, who was midway to the ramp lift on the rear end of our little “shop,” does a U-turn and scampers across the lawn.
My bosses crowd my space, giving me expectant looks.
I lean back. “Is…something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” April croons in a casual tone.
Rebel arches a brow.
They both let the silence ring.
“Is there something you want to discuss?” I ask pensively.
April smirks. “Is there anythingyouwant to discuss?”
“Um…” I squint at the bright blue sky. “I mean, yeah.”
Rebel makes a “go ahead” gesture.
“I was thinking about the waveforms I got with the oscilloscope tool you let me borrow. The data showed that a tooth broke off from the crankshaft gear?—”
“Delia, comeon,” April says. “We’ve got questions.”
“You’re Cordelia Davenport,” Rebel whispers as if my last name is something reverent. “Davenport…from theDavenport family. I’ve seen your carpet-cleaning commercials since I was a kid.”
The two women start humming the commercial jingle, and I cringe.
I’ve run from my last name and all the assumptions that tag along with it for most of my life. But, as usual, the Davenport title runs faster than I ever could, and now, it’s finally caught up.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” April asks, folding her arms over her chest.
“You saw my last name when I applied for the job.”
“Yeah, but…” Rebel shakes her head. “Why do you live in an apartment that small when you’re a Davenport?”
“I like my apartment,” I argue.
“It’s so tiny!”
