She hasn’t messaged since she sent me that photo of her in a dress.
I haven’t either.
We’re in that weird space between—what are we, exactly?
Still enemies? Definitely not.
Friends? Maybe.
More?
I want to find out.
But not through a screen.
So I tuck the phone away, close my eyes, and let my mind drift back to that kiss.
Yeah.
I amsoscrewed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Things That Catch Fire
Chase
Scarlett is sitting on my kitchen counter, legs swinging, hair twisted up in some messy knot that’s making it really hard to focus on the task at hand.
Which is—not setting the kitchen on fire.
“I thought you said you knew how to cook,” she says, eyeing the smoke curling up from the pan like she’s already planning her escape route.
“I do,” I say confidently, even as the smoke alarm starts to beep. “Mostly.”
Rip is lying in the corner, head on his paws, watching this whole disaster unfold like he’s seen it a hundred times. Which he has.
Scarlett hops down from the counter, waving a dish towel at the smoke alarm while laughing. “Should I call for backup? Or maybe a pizza?”
“You’re seriously underestimating my capabilities,” I mutter, grabbing the skillet and trying to salvage what used to be chicken.
“You’re seriouslyoverestimatingyour stove settings.”
I roll my eyes.
Eventually, I manage to get dinner on the table—somewhat charred chicken tacos, homemade guac that turned out suspiciously decent, and store-bought churros I tried to pass off as handmade until she caught the price tag still on the box.
We eat on the couch, Rip wedged between us like the world’s fluffiest chaperone, while a low-fi playlist hums in the background. Scarlett’s curled up with her knees tucked under her, a taco in one hand and a margarita in the other.
“This is fun,” she says, and I glance over, surprised by how soft her voice sounds.
“Even with the almost-fire?”
She grins. “Especially with the almost-fire.”
I’m just glad she agreed to come over.
She takes a sip of her drink, then nudges my knee with hers. “So. How was the road trip?”