Page 2 of Bookishly Ever After
“Why?” He pushed a hand through the thick strands of his coffee-colored hair, repeating my question with a tinge of frustration. “Because I—” He stopped himself with a strangled sort of self-deprecating laugh. “Because I care about you, kid. We’ve been friends for how long now?”
Ever since the first day I moved to Seattle. “Four years.”
“Four years.” He shook his head. “Four years and all this time I don’t think I’ve ever seen you leave your apartment on the weekends except for church or takeout.”
I pointed to my shirt with a grin. “I’m booked.”
“You’re hiding is what you’re doing.”
“Hey!” His words hurt even though they were off the mark. Okay, maybe they hit the mark a little, but not a bull’s-eye. I wasn’t hiding. I was unwinding. Big difference. “Look—I’ve had a long week filled with lots of people. Lots of grouchy people, might I add. And unlike you who thrives on being the center of attention and recharges by being in a large crowd, I don’t. I need quiet. Solitude. Time by myself.”
“You realize you just said the same thing in three different ways, don’t you?” He flopped down on the couch with a smug grin.
“Some people are so thick skulled they need the repetition.”
“Hardy har har.” His gaze landed on the coffee table, his lips curling like Jim Carey inHow the Grinch Stole Christmas.
I followed his line of sight. He wouldn’t. But as he leaned forward, I realized he so totally would.
Like a cheetah I pounced, but my catlike reflexes weren’t quick enough. My hand landed on top of his, under that the package of Peanut Butter M&M’s. My last bag, I might add. “You eat those, you die, Woodby.”
The brow over his right eye rose. “A line you read in one of your books?”
“Test me and find out.” Bart Simpson could have his Butterfingers, but no one messed with my Peanut Butter M&M’s.
His hands rose in surrender, and I felt a bit of the victory that Amelia Walters must feel when her felons assumed such a pose. “That’s right.” I sniffed.
In a flash the bag was snatched from my hand. Tate’s head knocked back, and the few remaining candy pieces fell into his open mouth. He brought his face down, his eyes twinkling as his jaw worked to chew.
“But…but…that was my last bag.” And I had no desire to leave my apartment to buy more.
He laughed as he rose and walked back to the open window. Half his body disappeared as he leaned out, a plastic sack in his hand when he pulled himself all the way back in. The sack landed with a thud on the coffee table.
I leaned forward, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing my interest, but curious just the same. The ends of a dark-brown wrapper peered back at me. I looked up at Tate.
“Forgiven?” He dug in the bag and pulled out a sharing-size pack of candy, jutting his chin back to the plastic-wrapped lump he’d extricated his offering from. “The rest of that is for our friends under the overpass. I noticed your pile of offerings was running low last time I was here. Let me know when you go again to hand those out. I’d like to come with. Maybe finish that conversation I had with that one guy. What was his name again?”
The offering too tempting—and really, I’d never stayed mad at anyone longer than a minute, and that was when I was really angry, not play angry—I took the package and fell beside him onto the couch. The chocolate was nice, but his thoughtfulness to help the homeless with me completely doused any hard feelings I harbored.
He held out his cupped palm, and I opened the M&M’s and poured. Taking one, I popped it into my mouth. “I think you mean the Major. He seemed to like you.”
“Of course. What’s not to like?”
I rolled my eyes. “So what are your plans for the evening? Hot date with one of your adoring fans?” I bumped his shoulder with mine and tried to wiggle my brows. I’d read that many times in books before, how a character wiggled their brows suggestively at another character. As many times as I’ve tried to do it, that was how many times I’d failed.
He pointed his finger between my eyes. “Whatever you’re doing there, just stop.”
My smile came naturally, and I popped another candy in my mouth. “So?”
“So what?”
“Plans? Hot date?” A budding musician, Tate played at a local joint every Wednesday night for open mic. He was good. Real good. Even I got a little swoony when he sang, and I knew firsthand how annoying he could be. Case in point—performing a B and E to scare the living daylights out of me. All the women loved him. He even had a little following that showed up each week. Groupies.
Yes, I showed up each week too. But we were friends. I was moral support. Not a groupie. The groupies were the ones he’d take out on the weekends. Hence I was 99 percent sure his plans included a hot date.
He turned to me, his shoulder sinking into the plush back of my microfiber couch. “Why don’t we shake things up tonight? I’ll call some friends, and we can do one of the tours around the city.” He eyed the small pond of M&M’s I cradled in my hand. “We could even do the chocolate tour.”
I pointed to my shirt again. “Sorry. I’m booked.”
