Something crosses her face—like she sees the thoughts running through my mind, as though she knows I don’t like it. But all she says is, “I opened a window and it’s better already.”
I inhale, trying to test that for myself.
Then I weigh whether or not I can convince her to come down the hall and stay at my place, where there aren’t any fumes.
ThenI stifle a snort.
Yeah, like I’m going to win that battle.
So, I turn back to my bag, pull out the rest of my food.
It’s nothing fancy, not expensive, just good quality pastries from Molly’s bakery, some wine that a work colleague gave me, and some?—
“Ramen?”
The word is filled with awe, said softly, but close to me, right near my ear.
Victory bubbles up in my chest.
She likes ramen. Fuck, yeah. Does a large portion of the world also love the dish? Well, yes. ButMarieclearly likes it and I brought it, so I may as well have climbed Mt. Everest.”
“You changed your mind then?”
Her brows drag together, one unruly curl escaping and curling over her cheek. “About what?”
“About sharing your snacks.”
Her face relaxes, eyes flicking to the side. I follow her gaze, see the plate balanced on top of a pile of pillows and blankets. Cheese and bread and—thank God, I stopped for pastries—an apple covered in caramel and M&Ms.
My girl has a sweet tooth.
Well, I have something for that too.
“I don’t know,” she says, never backing down from the challenge. “My cheese is really good and that’s the last of my apple.” A lazy shrug. “Plus, the bread is freshly baked from Molly’s.”
“Well”—I reach for the brown bag—“these are freshly baked from Molly’sandthey have apples.” I pull out the trio of apple cinnamon muffins. They’re still warm, from one of the last batches of the day, and my stomach rumbles when my nose catches wind of the spicy scent.
“Are those apple cinnamon muffins?” It’s a greedy question and a bolt of triumph shoots through me.
I nod, break off a piece, and shove it into my mouth, moaning when the flavor explodes on my tongue. “Sure is,” I say once I’ve chewed and swallowed. “What’s that worth to you?”
“A blow job.”
I choke on the second bite I’d shoved into my mouth, coughing as I try to clear my throat.
And not missing that her expression becomes triumphant.
That feeling is going around—too bad hers is because I’m slowly dying due to a delicious baked good.
“Drink,” she murmurs a few moments later, taking pity on me and setting a wine glass in front of my hand.
I scoop up the glass, guzzle back the wine, knowing that it’s a good one, but unable to enjoy it.
Because…still slowly dying.
“You know, if you choke to death in my kitchen, the blow job is off the table.”
I start coughing anew, but I do it glaring at her. “So…not…helping,” I manage to rasp out when my throat begins to relax.
